


hiraeth

by denouementt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:57:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denouementt/pseuds/denouementt
Summary: Marcus Flint is happy; he left the wizarding world two years ago and found refuge in a quaint Welsh seaside town working part-time in an ice cream parlour and part-time as the trainer of the town's Youth Quidditch team. His life is simple, beyond uneventful, and he adores it; that is, until, a particular Quidditch-playing face from his past weaves his way back into Marcus' life as he passes through the town for a major Quidditch event. Suddenly Marcus' life isn't so uneventful; he doesn't know how to feel about it.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> *NOTE* as of 27/05, this fic has been retired and will NOT be finished. apologies for any disappointment. I fell out of love with the concept, characters and plot, and felt it would be an injustice to the story to conclude it with half a heart of interest. 
> 
> is this really scorpiius posting something other than scorpius/albus that is also longer that 7k words? sure is folks! I've recently become obsessed with the flintwood pairing and have spent the best part of a week planning and writing this. it's set to be four parts, around 40k-ish words. this is just pure fluff and guilty pleasure, there's literally no plot. but hey! it's something :')
> 
> tumblr: scorpiusmlafoy

The aimless chatter and tinkling giggles falling from the lips of children that blossomed in the air of the parlour was a sound that made Marcus feel at home. Watching dainty little faces press up to the glass as their chubby fingers pointed desperately towards the flavour of ice cream they desired was a regular sight; Marcus knew his day wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t spend a total of thirty minutes running a cloth over the display case to clear off saliva or fingerprints. He knew that, if he had the time or desire, Marcus could set up a ‘Work Bingo’ where he ticked off events that occurred every day without fail. From young families rushing in, dressed in their shorts and sandals with a waterproof now covering their upper half, to escape the rain to a young child dropping their cone on the floor, there were endless scenarios that Marcus had become all too familiar with during his two years working at the parlour.

From a wizarding world war survivor to a Muggle retail worker, Marcus had found not only comfort but also happiness behind the counter of _Pine Cones Ice Cream Parlour_. Known locally as _Coney’s_ , the parlour was owned, and previously run single-handedly, by dairy extraordinaire Mr Ernest Pine. Mr Pine had hand crafted all twenty of the original flavours sold in the parlour and prided himself in only using second-hand furniture purchased from the plethora of charity shops tucked in among the bustling high street to fill his shop. There were tables scattered within the parlour for families of all sizes, the most popular area being the strip by the wall of windows looking out to the North Shore and the lengthy promenade outlining the sandy beach. It was only as the parlour became more popular and Mr Pine came near retirement age that he began hiring external workers to help during the summer months.

Marcus was one of the four workers Mr Pine had recruited and, to his knowledge, the only wizard he’d unknowingly hired. Currently serving a cherub-faced girl behind the counter was Oscar Breves, the first to be brought in to the parlour; he boasted a blood relation to Mr Pine through being his grandson but consistently denied the notion that being family was the reason he was employed. His skin was pale cream in colour despite being showered in sun most of the days, the lack of pigment resulting in his shadowed blue eyes not being highlighted as much as they would if he were more sun-kissed. Oscar hadn’t a plan for his future, just went about his life day-by-day; the only sort of preparation he did for the days ahead was deciding what obnoxiously coloured Hawaiian shirt he would wear to work. Beside him in front of the free counter hastily stirring milk into a too-full cup of coffee was Valentina Cantú. Her russet-coloured skin, swimming with ethereal olive undertones, was darker than normal from the countless hours she spent in the sun collecting rocks and shells from the beaches. As a way to cure her occasional homesickness, having moved from Mexico to Wales to study at the University of Cardiff before dropping out after feeling as though she wasn’t challenged enough, Valentina frequented the sandy shores early in the dawn right until the latest dusk. She had a natural talent for making the perfect cup of tea, perfectly sweet while still inhibiting the deep flavour that any British person desired, a skill that the rest of the _Coney’s_ cohort took advantage of during their breaks with her. Lastly, currently restocking the fridge to the side of the main ice cream case, stood Florence Whittaker. The name badge pinned to her navy pinafore read 'Flo’, the nickname she most commonly used and preferred. Flo arrived on the deadline for the job applications at _Coney’s_ after leaving her wealthy London-based family following a dramatic argument surrounding her career choice. The Whittaker’s were well-known for their history of always having a neurosurgeon in every generation, the profession which had led to their prestige status within the country. Florence was the only child of her father’s generation and, much to his disappointment, she had an inkling for art and had chosen to pursue a career in a commission based path rather than the expected medicine. Her father had tried and tried to convince her to take up medicine but she withheld, using her money to purchase art supplies and time to teach herself the techniques she’d need to be successful. Her leaving the home was a predetermined fact right from when she was born, it just took fate some time to catch up before sending Flo on her way to wherever it best seemed fit.

As a foursome they worked well together; they were a close-knit group of friends of which Marcus was very grateful for. Moving from his home in an environment full of people like him to somewhere with a minute wizarding community was a terrifying task alone, having a group around him to keep him company as he adjusted to this new way of life was ideal. They were all pulled together by one defining feature: their lack of planning for the future. One hidden wizard isolated from the world where he belonged, one dawdling hipster exploiting his grandfather’s success, one university drop out struggling to feel fulfilled and one trust fund baby gone wrong, all four of them had found themselves in this corner of the universe based on their non-existent preparations for adulthood.

But, despite all that, _Pine Cones Ice Cream Parlour_ was the perfect place for them all to reside. Settled right on the northern coast of Wales, _Coney’s_ belonged to the corner spot of the high street in the little seaside town Llandudno. Enclosed by two mountainous forms called the Great and Little Orme, Llandudno was additionally sandwiched between two contrasting beaches, making it the perfect location for any stereotypical British holiday. The North Shore, viewable from the sit-down portion of _Coney’s_ , revealed a perfectly curved sandy surface with an array of differently shaped, coloured and sized rocks hidden within and above the granules of sand. To the left hand side of the shore, parallel to the dominating presence of the Great Orme, proudly stood the Llandudno pier, reaching its spindly supports deep into the cerulean sea below. Two arcades defined the start and the end of the rickety pier and in between boasted a handful of independent, minuscule shops selling one of a kind knickknacks as well as several amusement park-like rides for younger children. Bordering the beach on the opposite side of the town was the Little Orme, a structure visibly smaller than its counterpart, but much more wild and adventurous for the tourists who enjoyed embracing the natural side of the country. Curving the path between the two Orme’s spread the coral-coloured bricks of the Promenade. Seemingly infinitely long in length for young rascals who _just_ wanted an ice cream, the Promenade was home to several shelters looking out at the glittering sea as well as offering a public space for church groups, charity collectors and seagulls to interact with the public who year round crossed the length of the brickwork. The first line of buildings looking directly on to the beach consisted mainly of multi-coloured pastel hotels and bed and breakfasts; many of the structures had been there for longer than the location had been a working holiday town, a fact which appeared in the foreground of their advertising. The remaining few buildings were café’s, an occasional fish and chip shop and the nationally renowned _Coney’s Ice Cream Parlour_. Hidden on the opposite side of the town, unbeknownst to many who visited, was the West Shore beach. Much sandier than its companion, West Shore was the picture perfect image of a beach; families of sand dunes lined the gap between road and shore and the lonesome café serving warm snacks to the occasional visitors were the only notable landmarks surrounding the beach. It was a lot less popular but much more desirable in terms of practicality and being an ideal holiday location. Alas, much like the wonderful and necessary things in life, West Shore always welcomed less visitors than the North Shore, leaving the picturesque views of distant islands and risk-taking windsurfers only pleasing the occasional jellyfish that passed by the shallows.

Everything about the little town tucked away in a never ending list of seaside towns was idealistic and tranquil. The curling waves crashing on the rocky shores to the bubbling arcades situated throughout the town as well as along the pier were all pivotal in allowing the town to thrive in the way it did. If Marcus had to pick a single flaw with the place he now considered home, it would be the fact that there was nobody else his age aside from his co-workers and an occasional tag-along sibling accompanying a family holiday. The secluded location was perfect for families seeking a week’s refuge away from the hustle and bustle of daily life as well as elderly couples looking to retire; but, for the younger generations wanting to step on to the career ladder, sparse working opportunities presented themselves save agriculture, tourism and the emergency services. The second those in their early twenties could afford to, they sailed off into the sunset to either the capital, Cardiff, or further inland where they could prosper in a profession of their choice.

It’s why the four of them were really the only citizens of their age in the little town. With minimal aspiration to pursue a traditional career they had no reason to leave the seaside, especially when they had a stable job in _Coney’s_ and each other to experience the world with. Marcus loved it, actually. Escaping to this perfect area of the world where there was a dwindling magic community allowed him to heal in the way he needed.

The feelings of the war still struck him raw when he found himself renting a little apartment above the only bakery along the high street. He may not have suffered the severities of the war in the way that most of his friends and acquaintances had, but he still witnessed all the death, the evil and the pain that shadowed their community. He heard of families being torn apart at the seams as their children were attacked at school, watched as everyone sheltered in fear to avoid the dark forces attempting the penetrate their innocence every day. Those sights and sounds would haunt any normal person; Marcus found it difficult to stay in that environment even after everything had cleared. He couldn’t walk out into the streets listening to an optimistic, young wizard babble about how excited they were to start school the following September. He couldn’t hold his wand in his hand without shaking, thinking about the spells he had previously cast at any faceless figure passing in front of him during the Battle.

So he packed up his bags, apparated to the middle of nowhere and found his way to the sandy shores he now called home. It was intimidating at first, gradually introducing himself to a new variation of people and finding his feet in the drastically different location, but he wouldn’t change what had happened for the world.

“Earth to Flint,” a smooth voice accompanied a gentle scratch to his scalp. Marcus blinked, waking himself from yet another daydream. “And he’s back. Where were you off to this time?”

“Back in Scotland again,” Marcus offered; it had become a running joke within the group, given how many times they caught Marcus lost in a trance, that he was dreaming of being somewhere else and every time he was interrupted he named somewhere in the world. Recently, though, he had found himself settled back in Scotland, back near Hogwarts, wishing for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Sorry, Flo.”

“S'alright, gorgeous. You were staring so intently at the teapots I knew you’d work through your lunch break,” Flo smiled, violet painted lips curled into sympathetic yet friendly expression. “Valentina has already gone for hers. See you in an hour.”

“See you in an hour.” Said Marcus, gently pinching Flo’s perfectly freckled cheeks. He pulled off his candy floss coloured apron, the whole parlour had a pastel theme, and exchanged it for his jacket which he pulled on as he left the building and stepped into the bustling traffic of the high street. Despite knowing he could stay in the break room for his lunch, Marcus used this hour to absorb his daily intake of magic; there was a hidden wizarding teashop around the corner, tucked between the buildings in a style similar to the Leaky Cauldron. Although he never cast any enchantments anymore or regularly engaged with this part of this life, he enjoyed reading the Daily Prophet every day to keep up to date with everything happening in the secret part of his life.

Marcus gently shouldered the black door open, smiling as the suffocating smell of Butterbeer flooded his senses and his eyes flicked around the multi-coloured robes decorating the hooks near the entrance. If Marcus were to ever leap back into his old life and fully envelop himself back in the world of magic, the first place he would go to begin the transfer would be this very place: _The Common Welsh Green Tea Shop._ Behind the bar stood the owner and workers of the teashop flicking their wands back and forth to send the cups cascading into the sink to be washed and bewitching sugar cubes to drop correspondingly into drinks they were preparing. The shop consisted mainly of high tables surrounded by bar stools where the witches and wizards who were passing through monotonously sipped on their drinks and nibbled at the few delicacies the shop supplied. Every day they had a new stash of the current _Daily Prophet_ edition, the height of which declined and rose as all individuals flicked through the pages cover to cover before returning it to the counter as they left. The slightly shabby-looking place echoed magic; from the signed photographs of famous witches and wizards hung on the walls to the nostalgic confectionery snacks piled up at the cashier, Bertie Botts to Chocolate Frogs to Pepper Imps, wherever Marcus looked he was hit with a wave of remembrance and slight sadness at all he left behind.

“The usual Mister Marcus?”

“Ah, my little Seeker,” Marcus smiled, stepping over to the counter where, proudly stood behind the crumb-covered surface, Rory Davies looked admirably up at him. “The usual, please.”

“The usual for Mister Marcus, Mumma!” Rory screeched, startling the customers emotionlessly delving into their lunch. “Are you still coming to practice tonight?”

“Of course I am, I’m the manager after all.” Chuckled Marcus, digging into his back pocket to find the funds for his meal; he juggled through a variety of Muggle coins to get as many Sickles as he needed, checking to make sure he wasn’t going to accidentally hand over a five pence piece or something else that wouldn’t be valid. Despite working in a Muggle area, Marcus still paid for his apartment rent and occasional food with traditional wizarding mint. When he first arrived and found an apartment he could afford, Marcus was lucky enough to be living somewhere with a half-blood landlord who helped him exchange galleons for pounds and vice versa. It sometimes became rather complicated when Marcus, usually late in the morning, dished a few sickles into the hand of a barista when paying for his coffee instead of pound coins, having to hastily explain it was foreign money. But, in the long run, it helped him keep on top of things and have a small something connecting him to his life back _home._

Using wizarding money also allowed him to collect more income by training the local youth Quidditch team in their regional league. Being the only mid-twenties wizard in the town and, conveniently, the only one who ever played on his school’s Quidditch team, Marcus became the perfect candidate for the role after their previous manager moved to inland to play professionally. The Llandudno Lobalug’s trained every weekday save Wednesdays with a league game played on the Sundays; it was a sweet little set up that Marcus deeply enjoyed getting involved with, the shrill excitement that radiated from his players reminded him of when he first started playing Quidditch at Hogwarts and even earlier when he was gifted his first broomstick. Going out every late afternoon without telling his friends where he was really going made things a little complicated sometimes, (there were only so many excuses he could bring up as to what he was doing for an hour and a half every day), but wandering away to the wizarding part of the town made the slight bending of the truth worth it.

Little Rory cheered at Marcus’ response, accidentally fist-bumping into the cup of tea that his ‘Mumma’, the glorious Julia, owner of the tea shop, had brought over for Marcus. “Rors, baby, please be careful. I know you really like Mister Marcus and Quidditch, but we don’t make loud noises inside the shop, do we?” She reminded, voice effortlessly soft and gentle as she reinforced behaviour expectations into her son. Marcus was extraordinarily grateful for the Davies family, more so than they would ever know. When he first arrived here and found the teashop by pure coincidence they welcomed him with comforting, open arms. Rory had toddled over to him at the door and coiled his arms around Marcus’ right leg, almost cementing himself to the traveller before he even had time to say hello. Julia had practically thrown a hot cup of chocolate into his hand and demanded he stay for the evening until his feet were firmly on the ground and he had a place to stay. Despite not being where the action of the war was necessarily taking place, the Davies family and the other wizarding families settled in this region had all witnessed their fair share of Muggleborns hiding in their little upstairs apartments to watching Death Eaters soar like a chilling black cloud through the air. Julia saw Marcus for what he was: a troubled, alone wizard looking for somewhere to start fresh.

“No, we don’t. Sorry, Mumma.” There was an essence of genuine apology somewhere in Rory’s voice, but as soon as he was handed a Dragon shaped cookie to keep him quiet he was a silenced, distant presence only worried about the sugary food he was given to eat.

“You look a little far off today, my love,” Julia confessed, voice over-powered slightly by the chunking cashier as she took Marcus’ money and processed it. “Almost as if there’s something on your mind.”

Marcus climbed up to his regular seat, one of the comfier bar stools adjacent to the counter; he had spent countless hours sat on the topaz-coloured stool conversing smoothly with Julia and other customers he had come to recognise. “Missing home a bit, I think. I haven’t been back in two years, have only communicated by weekly letters. But I know if I go back then I’ll want to move back completely and… I’m just not ready for it, I don’t think. Nor do I _really_ want to leave this place. You know what it’s like, living in an urban wizarding area.”

“That’s why I moved here,” shrugged Julia, enchanting her milk pot and sugar cubes to finish her cup of tea so she could continue talking; the mug, after everything was mixed in to perfection, scooted over the counter towards her and turned so the grey, ceramic handle was facing her spindly fingertips. “If you’re in an urban area you’re usually working for the Ministry. If not, you’re in St Mungo’s, Hogwarts or retail somewhere like Diagon Alley. You have a good deal here, I think. And, if you’re missing family, why not bring them out here? I’ve got a spare room they could use.”

“Exactly, everyone I went to school with is a miserable Ministry employee nowadays. I sometimes catch their names in the _Prophet_ and wonder why they got involved with it to begin with,” Marcus chuckled, casting a glance over to the pile of papers situated on the opposite side of the counter. “I’ll consider asking if they want to come out here for a weekend or something like that. It’ll just be weird seeing them after everything that happened before I left.”

“I understand that,” Julia sipped her tea, looking over the curved rim at a slightly pale looking Marcus. “Do you have any friends who play Quidditch professionally?”

Marcus cocked up one eyebrow, shaking his head in response. “No? I don’t have any Quidditch playing friends. Well, old friends. Why?” He queried, circling a piece of his biscuit into the Butterbeer syrup the shop had introduced a short while ago. The taste always took him right back to weekends out at Hogsmeade with fellow Slytherin’s during his Hogwarts days, wandering the cobbled streets with their green scarves woven around their necks to keep the cool away from their skin.

“Front page of the _Prophet._ There’s a relatively important European Tournament happening up in Cardiff the next few weeks. Some of the teams are stopping nearby. I just wondered whether anyone from your Hogwarts cohort would be coming around.” Julia explained, collecting Marcus’ plate and mug immediately after he had emptied the contents of both.

“Oh, well- no. None that I can recall. Should be good for this place, though, having constant passing traffic of wizards and witches coming to see this tournament.” Marcus said, stretching out his muscles as he stood from the stool. He would be the first to admit that this teashop was one of the happiest places he had ever found, but he would _also_ be the first to admit that the chairs weren’t particularly good for one’s back.

“Indeed it shall,” Julia smiled. “See you later?”

“Later.” Agreed Marcus, tossing a wave in her direction and two little finger guns in the way of Rory behind the counter as he trickled back out the teashop onto the high street. By the time Marcus’ lunch hour finished it was prime time along the long streets of the town; families fluttered past window displays, parents carrying supermarket bags loaded with picnic foods while their children clattered beside them with fistfuls of buckets, spades and kites – all sorts of beachside items. Being prime time, as expected, _Coney’s_ reached their peak amount of customers. All the little tables would be packed with families happily munching away at their cool food to combat the beating heat hitting their burnt skin, some even standing in the shaded spaces to avoid melting their treat outside the shop.

Marcus volunteered to take early lunch so he, and Valentina, could work through the rush of customers. After working with the public for two years Marcus liked to think he had gathered some decent communication and customer service skills that made this portion of the day less stressful. He would reiterate _less_ because it was purely impossible to not have a miniscule aneurism while watching a toddler play dominos with the cans of lemonade he had just organised in the fridge, or seeing a child carelessly drip their ice cream over the floor he’d spent the morning viciously scrubbing at. Marcus would also like to boast the fact that he handled the stress the best out of the four of them working in the parlour; Oscar often had a terrible outburst to himself, scaring not only the customers but also his co-workers, Valentina decided to just ignore the stress and mess and allow it all to pile up inside her while Flo often treated the customers poorly who caused the issue in the first place. Marcus believed he was the best at concealing and controlling his emotions, falsely saying “it’s no worry at all” to the ever so apologetic parents as he swiped his mop around the floor for the twentieth time that day.

“Thank _God_ you’re back,” Flo was, as usual, flailing her hands in an over-dramatic style as Marcus walked back into the parlous. Her left hand was clenching a dripping wet ice cream scoop while the right decorated splashes of different sauces and syrups she’d been billowing onto the customer’s purchases. “Please save me. A child in the back corner has dropped two, _two_ , consecutive cones on the floor. If I don’t go on my break right now I will probably kick him out.”

“Where’s Oscar? Couldn’t he clean the mess?” Marcus asked, tying his apron back around the slim figure of his waist; he gently pried the ice cream scoop from between Flo’s strikingly white fingertips, additionally damping a cloth to wipe off the mess glistening over her skin.

“He’s been unloading stock the last thirty minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has already gone for his break.” Flo sighed, gladly whipping off her apron with such a careless motion she almost missed the hooks.

“Scurry along, my dear. I’ll handle the fort,” Marcus smiled, pressing a dainty kiss to the back of Valentina’s curled hair as he joined her behind the counter. “What’s to do then, Val?”

“You’re so infuriating, Marc,” Valentina oozed, flashing him a less than pleased, sarcastic grin. “If you’re going to shorten my name, you know I prefer Lena. Just like you prefer no shortened version at all.”

“I just like to rile you up.”

“I know,” Valentina sighed, playfully poking Marcus’ side. “I’ve got a table order for a Honeycomb Sundae and tea for two, there’s a child in the corner who keeps dropping his ice cream on purpose to annoy Flo and I need a fresh tub of the banana before I run out.”

“Honeycomb, child and banana. Right, I’ve got this. Give me a shout if the counter gets a little busy.”

And with that Marcus scuttled to the cabinets where they had the bowls and glasses organised, picking out the oval-shaped one they used for the variety of sundaes the parlour offered. He chose the cleanest scoop he could find from the pot of always soaking ones under the display cabinet and set about collecting two scoops of honeycomb ice cream, one vanilla and one chocolate. Marcus symmetrically placed two flakes on either side of the tower of ice cream, finishing the _masterpiece_ off with a gentle swirl of salted caramel sauce.

Marcus enjoyed this aspect of his work the most; getting lost in his own thoughts as he constructed the ice creams that brought happiness to so many people made his sometimes tedious working days’ worth it. Watching as the children gaped in shock as he brought over their slim, chocolate sundaes or their bear-shaped ice cream cones sent his heart aflutter as he recalled the times when _he_ would react in such a way. The shop made him feel nostalgic, reminded him of all the happiness he experienced when he was younger and reinforced how he had now come full circle to be the one of the production end of the cycle. Learning how to make the perfect cappuccino for the worn out mother yearning for a moments relaxation, perfectly swirling the green and purple flavoured slush to create a mystical frosty drink for the teenagers who glumly accompanied their families; there were so many elements to the customer service work that he didn’t think he would be able to appreciate if he were working anywhere else.

Were he a part-time employee in _The Welsh Green Tea Shop_ , Marcus didn’t think he would get the satisfaction of seeing the food he had created. He had watched a countless amount of times as Julia exploited domestic spells to stir her ingredients, boil her water and even stock the shelves full of the sugary sweets they were locally famed for. For Marcus, part of the experience was driving his fingers numb scooping freezing ice cream into acceptably pretty piles before presenting them to someone who would instantly devour his artistic efforts.

Marcus placed the sundae on a circular tray alongside one of their sunflower yellow kettles and two accompanying patterned teacups, folding their branded napkins into the signature triangular shape; he picked up the tray and tucked a cloth into the waistband of his apron as he then manoeuvred through the buzzing shop to the tables he required. In an almost ballet-like routine, Marcus daintily set the tray down on the table between a teenage couple, whisked up the wooden spoon table setters the used and finally smoothed his cloth over the puddle of ice cream building up beside the mischievous child.

“So sorry to bother you,” Marcus began, tautly pulling his lips to his best customer-friendly smile. “But I must request you watch your son, this is the second time myself and my colleague have had to come and clean ice cream off the floor. If he persists I may have to request you eat outside.”

The mother was flustered, the father embarrassed and the child still playfully batting his ice cream covered spoon all over the table as Marcus flew back to behind the counter. His work day consisted mainly of those sorts of interactions; he would apologise for any inconvenience made by addressing the inconveniences other customers were making, speaking in an angelic voice to request they alter the behaviour before finally laying down the conditions. Between these small conversations with customers, he would scoop some ice cream, clean some surfaces and wash some glasses. It became quite monotonous and repetitive, but it was Marcus’ daily routine, and he would much rather be doing this than involving himself in some Magical Law Enforcement which required he read seven thick textbooks cover to cover before getting the lowest paid job available. Besides, though rather repetitive in action, the presences who blessed the parlour were different every day.

One day there would be a well-established couple holidaying with their three teenage children, all of whom looked far from pleased to be seated around a tiny table in the cramped parlour. Another day would reveal a youthful couple pushing an elaborately coloured pram into the parlour, sharing a sundae to themselves while occasionally offering a minute spoonful to the child sleeping heavenly in her bed of roses and cushions. There were infinite possibilities to the personalities who would walk through the door into _Coney’s_ , the only aspect of them that Marcus could be sure of was that they would be walking to the counter more than once during their holiday.

As every other day preceding this particular one where Marcus’ life would unknowingly change forever, the daylight hours flew by and it seemed that just as he had returned from lunch they were taking the latches off the doors and letting them fall to a close. Oscar had flipped around the ‘Come in, we’re open!’ sign to the opposite side, ‘Sorry, come back soon!’ while Flo and Valentina had done a final sweep with their dustpans and broomsticks. From the back windows Marcus could see the beach still full with tourists basking in the late afternoon sun, the rising tide glittering with a rainbow of lights pooling over the surface from the pier towering above the waves. Their work day might have just ended but, for the public as well as themselves, their day was really only just beginning. Marcus knew that Oscar would be going out with some family friends for an evening meal, an event he had been complaining about for what felt like a lifetime, whereas Florence and Valentina would be acting as each other’s partners for a customer’s wedding reception. They would be attending on behalf of all the _Coney’s_ staff who had supplied an ice cream van before and after the ceremony; the invitation had been extended to all four of them but, having to lie through his teeth again, Marcus had to excuse himself for the sake of Quidditch practice.

“If either of you three call in sick tomorrow, I will come to your flats and curse you all.” Marcus chimed in alongside the melancholy sounds of the locks being secured by Oscar.

“Just because you’re a bore who rides off into the sunset _God knows where_ , don’t be jealous, love.” Flo smiled, her lips pressing to Marcus’ cheek; the lipstick that had been wearing off from the constant stream of talking she did with customers left a perfectly round mark on his skin.

“I’m not jealous,” Marcus laughed. “Have fun. See you all tomorrow, nine o’clock _sharp_.” He exaggerated, giving all three of his friends a mock salute before heading in the opposite direction towards the small, wizarding part of the town.

The wizarding community here was notably smaller than any of the other places that Marcus had visited within his twenty-five years in the world, but it acted as a microcosm for the wizarding world as a whole. There was a wand repairs shop, a local pub, Quidditch stores and pet shops all brimming to the ceilings with magic. Behind the small estate of cottages where the majority of the community lived, save for the rare few such as Marcus himself and other Muggleborns, even stood a miniature Quidditch pitch where Marcus’ team trained and often held their matches.

It was always surprising to him how this area of the town was so undiscovered by the Muggle community swamping over three quarters of the land; granted, areas such as the Quidditch pitch were secluded and far off so that Muggles seldom came across the paths leading to it, but the streets lined with the shops weren’t too far away from regular hotels and holiday homes. The seclusion of the wizarding world would always greatly confuse the logical part of Marcus’ brain, but thinking too much about how blatantly obvious their side of the world was almost hurt his mind sometimes. He had to cut himself off before he delved particularly deep into the ins and outs of magical law; Marcus was proud to say he was a relatively intelligent person and had his academic skills, but investigating the foundations of his blood wasn’t something that particularly intrigued or excited him.

Marcus aimlessly sifted along the narrow roads of Llandudno towards the almost dirt path stretch taking him the backwards way to the Quidditch pitch. The perimeter of the half-sized pitch presented benches where parents and spectators could sit during practice and proper matches, as well as the top end of the oval shape being home to the broom and supplies cupboard. Originally controlled by magic, as was everything, Marcus had installed a typical lock to secure all of his growing supplies; he rarely ever used genuine magic nowadays, his wand was locked in a box in his wardrobe at home, and he liked knowing that everything he was working towards was only accessible by _him_. Perhaps he was becoming a paranoid coach who was allowing the power of running a relatively successful youth team get to his clouded brain. Whether it was that or just his maturity giving him a better way to protect his inventory, Marcus didn’t particularly care.

By the time Marcus had approached the broom and supplies cupboard, his whole team of little Quidditch players were stabilising themselves on their broomsticks and doing hover trials around the edge of the pitch. One of the first lessons Marcus taught any of his team members was the simple practice of what he called ‘hover trials’. They were to essentially correctly raise and mount their brooms, kick ever so slightly off the ground and do a complete circuit of the pitch five times, gradually increasing in speed, in order to improve their balance and their control of the broomstick. The majority of the team had purchased their own broomsticks after being placed a permanent player, the reserves, on the other hand, made use of the supply Marcus kept in the cupboard.

“Mister Marcus!” Rory was the first of the team to spot their beloved coach scooping up the broomsticks and the chest of equipment they would need for the evenings practice. “You’re finally here!”

“Of course I am, little guy. Am I late?” Marcus asked, glancing down to his watch. He was technically a minute late which, to the Quidditch players bouncing on the balls of their feet as they eagerly awaited the session, was the equivalent of being an hour late.

Marcus allowed little Rory to carry one of the broomsticks – he had asked to carry the chest but, given that even Marcus struggled to carry it, he decided against potentially wounding the child before he’d experienced life yet – as they rounded up all the suited and booted players.

“Alright, good evening, lads,” Marcus started, clapping his hands together to catch their attention. “First things first, since we all now have broomsticks, I want you to do three lots of hover trials. Around the pitch fifteen times while I set up. Anyone who knocks someone else off their broom has to do another five.”

One by one the little ones (Marcus said little when, realistically, all of the players were between seven and ten) tapped off the ground and began to gently direct their broom around the circumference of the pitch. Meanwhile, as he usually did, Marcus set off to the side of the pitch where Julia set up her ‘parents and carers’ coffee stand for the practice; the tight-knit community always stayed to watch the team practice for, aside from occasional birthday celebrations, this was the only time they ever all got to be together. Julia would bring the hot drinks, a gentle elderly lady who brought her grandson, her daughter was always away for work, carried in trays of freshly baked cookies and patisserie rolls and the remaining circle would take it in turns to bring napkins and paper plates. It was a sweet arrangement and, as he poured himself a too-strong cup of coffee into a paper cup, Marcus suddenly felt at home again.

“Marcus, my love,” unsurprisingly Julia was the first to beckon him over, flattening out a double page spread from the _Daily Prophet_ as he approached the bench where she was sat. “You know how I mentioned that European Quidditch Tournament earlier?”

“Yes…” Marcus started, uncertain as to where this conversation would be heading. For all it was worth, Marcus deeply admired Julia and appreciated everything he had done for her, but she did request and suggest some very unusual things which, due to their close relationship, Marcus could never refuse. One time Marcus could never forget was when she suggested, in the name of fundraising for a local Floo network to be installed in her teashop, a Lobalug’s versus Marcus Quidditch game. It seemed like an interesting and fun idea until Marcus was continually pelted, for the entire game, by Bludgers and even knocked off his broom by _his own players_.

(Explaining the injuries to his co-workers the next day was difficult, especially since, to the extent of their knowledge, he didn’t really have anyone else to talk to or spend time with. He added the lie to the mental list of bent truths he had been forced to tell his friends in order to keep the reality a secret.)

“You know that fancy estate near Conwy, about ten minutes away, where the Muggle footballers sometimes stay?” Julia started, continuing without giving Marcus an opportunity to register the place she had been describing. “It turns out that’s where the Scottish team will be staying for the duration of the tournament. I think it would be sweet if we could get some of the players to come here and chat to the kids about pursuing Quidditch professionally. Don’t you think?”

Marcus pondered the request; for the first time ever Julia had seemed to propose something realistic and helpful and, the more Marcus thought about it, the better the idea seemed. The only visible downside was the fact that Marcus would be the individual nominated to go knocking on the prestigious door or writing an overly-friendly letter to request an ounce of the player’s free time. Nevertheless, putting all the negative aspects aside, having some of the team come and meet his talented crew seemed like the most amazing idea that would hopefully inspire them for their upcoming league matches.

“That’s a great idea, actually. The Scotland team… anyone notably famous playing for them?” Marcus asked, squinting as he leaned forward in an attempt to decipher the small print listing all the players.

“You might know this person, someone called Oli-”

Julia was cut off by the sound of scratching wood and nearby childish squawks as three of his team crashed into each other. Their tumbling dismounts over the grass almost seemed comical; one of them flipped front ways over his broom, resulting in a collision between himself and the player immediately ahead. As those two coiled together in some sort of magical entanglement while swooping to the ground, their brooms spun and clipped the back of a third players. Entwining together in a ball of jumpers and goggles, the three of them rested in a spherical lump on the floor, one with tears of joy in his eyes, another tears of pain and the third tears of shock. It was a sight that Marcus had witnessed far too many times, to the point where all he did was sigh and shake his head as he stalked over to the bundle of boys.

“Lads, what did I say?” Marcus sighed, ignoring the popping of his bones as he crouched to their level to assess the damage the collision had done to them all. “Up and do another five please, James. I’m not sure why this is funny to you. Off you go. Kyle, go get a cup of tea and sit out for a few minutes with your dad. You’ve no injuries, try and get back on the broom as soon as possible. Meanwhile, you come with me, Luca. You’ve got a bad graze and a couple of scrapes, I want to clean that all up before you get back in there.”

Marcus eased little Luca up, letting his injured Keeper hold tightly onto his hand as they both hobbled over to the benches. The moment he set Luca down on one of the wooden structures his mother had rushed over, words of reassurance and comfort dropping from her lips like honey as if her son had been involved in a much more serious incident.

“Snitch or Hungarian Horntail?” Marcus asked, holding up the two different patterned plasters in front of Luca. Between soft, blubbering tears Luca pointed towards the Snitch design; Marcus gently wiped a damp towel over his grazes, brushing his thumb over the area surrounding the cuts to check there was nothing inside the open wound. Marcus then peeled back the protective film of the plaster and gently placed its length over the graze, giving a gentle rub along the top to ensure it would stay securely on his skin. “There we are, then. You’re a proper little player now, aren’t you? Had your first injury and all that. My first injury was in my first game at Hogwarts. Some horrid little Hufflepuff knocked me off my broom five minutes in. I sprained my arm and missed the next two games. You’re never a true player until you’ve shed a couple of tears.”

Marcus directed a playful wink in the direction of Luca, ruffling up his muddied hair. He let him be after that, allowing his mother to take over the caring duties by dishing out countless supportive rubs and dainty kisses to the little grazes scattered over his skin. Marcus just sighed as he picked up his cup of coffee again, watching with mild admiration as the rest of his team finished up their first warm-up.

“You’re very good with kids.”

Marcus sighed, casting an emotionless look in the direction of Julia. “You say that every time I talk to a child.” He chuckled, scrunching up a napkin to toss in the direction of a rather smug-looking coffee drinker.

“I say it because it’s true, my love,” smiled Julia. “Rory adores you. He isn’t as friendly with some people as you’d think. He likes you because you’re good with kids, and you _know_ that’s true. Why don’t you have any?”

Marcus stared blankly at Julia, head shaking slightly so that loose stands of hair came to cover his eyesight and slipped between his individual eyelashes. “Well first, and most important, I’m single. And have been since… the day I was born.”

“Details, details,” Julia waved her left hand nonchalantly in the air. “Okay then, Mister Pedantic, do you _want_ any?”

“I’ve… never considered it before.” Marcus eased out, slower than usual as the concept of children ran through his mind. He never had looked that far into the future, hence why he was living in a town full of people who didn’t have plans for that far ahead. A self-deprecating part of him teased his thoughts with the notion that he’d never considered children because, honestly, who would ever want to settle with someone with such lacklustre desires in life? He couldn’t really offer financial stability beyond his little apartment and the occasional money he splurged on an _extra_ -large coffee in the mornings, nor could he provide substantial enjoyment. Marcus liked to think he had a fair personality, but even _he_ got bored of his own company sometimes; how on Earth was he supposed to expect someone else to spend every waking moment with him when his own mind shut off sometimes?

“You should consider it. Who knows, perhaps your one true love lies just around the figurative corner.” Julia joked, perfectly set eyebrows wiggling.

“The figurative corner?” Marcus queried.

“Yes,” replied Julia. “There’s nobody else your age around any corner in this town.”

Marcus let out a gentle snigger, head shaking as he smiled over at Julia. The concept of finding someone had left his mind the moment he arrived here and saw how diminished the twenty-something’s population seemed. But now, sadly, Julia had sent the thought right back to the centre of his mind; he wished it wasn’t there, being alone meant he never really craved affection or attention from anyone but, now that he was thinking about the possibility of the person of his dreams waltzing into his life again, he had a slight simmering hope that he would have the chance to settle down. Perhaps there was the chance that someone around the figurative corner would change his life for the better. Marcus cast one last look at the _Daily Prophet_ , eyes tracing the photograph of the Scotland team sweeping through the air in an arrow formation. He turned and walked back to the pitch just as the team turned to the camera, faces all split into youthful smiles.

 

Marcus’ kettle whistled as he groggily wiped the sleep nestled in the corner of his eyes; the blinding sliver of sun cast into the small room through the tiniest gap between his curtains, scattering a shower of light patches over his carpeted floor. Marcus’ apartment was a sparse two rooms big; there was a small lavatory set to the side by the entrance, meanwhile the main room displayed his bedroom, lounge and kitchen. The larger of the rooms had mainly an open plan layout, with the cracked, marble countertops of the kitchen snaking in a U-shape to separate the kitchen from the lounge. Separating the bedroom from the remaining space hung only a plaid-patterned curtain. The railing curved around the entire “room”, isolating his bed, wardrobe and cabinets from the public space. Nobody bar himself and Oscar ever really came up here, Marcus didn’t really understand why he went through the trouble to assemble the curtain in the first place, but he liked having a somewhat organised and private space for _just_ himself.

He peered out the clouded window; Marcus’ view was perfect, he looked out over the rest of the high street and, if he stood on his tiptoes, he could see a line of the ocean over the rooftops of the buildings opposite his apartment. He lived above the only bakery in the town, meaning every morning as he opened his window to allow fresh air to slither into the murky area he was greeted with the settling scent of freshly baked bread and other assorted treats. When he was too tired to make breakfast, which ended up being most days, Marcus would stumble downstairs and pick up a croissant of sorts before heading to work. His living situation probably wasn’t as desirable as other people’s – for one he knew Draco Malfoy still lived in the Malfoy Manor and he was sure the Potter family would be residing in a gloriously large detached house by now – but for Marcus, it was home. Having a wonderful landlord looking after he and his apartment a mere five minute walk away from _Coney’s_ was perfect for him; in a tainted and short-sighted way, Marcus’ life was indeed that: perfect.

Marcus’ plans to for the day were surprisingly somewhat different to every preceding day. Usually he would wake, go to work, then go for lunch, back to work and then Quidditch practice until dusk made it impossible for them to train safely. However today, thanks to a last minute idea shoved in his vision yesterday, he was taking the afternoon off work and going down to essentially harass the Scottish Quidditch team. Admittedly he was a _little_ frightened, these were working professional players who would probably kick him away like a spec of dirt on their broomstick the second they saw him approach their area. Marcus greatly doubted that any of them would come to their tiny town’s pitch to give a five minute motivational speech to uninterested children who probably had no intention to pursue Quidditch past schooling age when they could be training for their own competition. Alas, Marcus knew he would be taking the intimidating plunge to talk to them, knowing that if he didn’t Julia would give him _that_ look (a combination of pursed lips and narrowed eyebrows, somewhere in between disappointment and anger that reminded Marcus so much of his own mother he melted the second she pulled it).

After realising he was a little short on Muggle money Marcus had to accept defeat and make his own coffee and breakfast that morning. He didn’t know how he had come to this predicament, he decided to ignore all the nights out he and the group had every Friday evening, but it was only a few days until his pay day so he didn’t let this worry him too much. As long as his pockets jingled with a clattering variety of Muggle and wizarding change then he knew he would survive the day.

After the kettle died off and the steam stopped billowing out the top Marcus poured the contents into his travel mug, printed on to the centre of the mug was ‘You’re a Catch!’ (the mug had been a Quidditch-inspired Christmas present from his cousin), and stirred in far too many spoons of sugar. He pressed on the lid and took a judgemental sip, only leaving his apartment after being satisfied with how the drink tasted as it buzzed over his taste buds.

Though the walk to the ice cream parlour consisted of crossing one road and walking five minutes along perfectly stoned pavements, on days when he was particularly tired Marcus felt as though it was a marathon. He was just glad he lived in such a pretty town, for the sight of fresh flowers blooming in the flowerboxes hanging from all shop windows and the sweet sound of seagulls echoing between the crossroads kept him alive, brought him down to Earth and reminded him how lucky he was to have such a simple life. It was the little things that kept Marcus happy; as long as he got to squeak as a seagull swooped right at him every day, Marcus would be content.

When he finally arrived at the parlour it was about five minutes until the actual opening time but, as always, the doors were hung open as the rest of the staff set up the chairs, tables and made sure the parlour was as welcoming as it could possibly be. Each day one of them had to arrive half an hour early to unlock the doors and switch on the electricity and today it was Oscar’s turn since, according to a majority vote the day before, he would be the least ‘hungover’ to wake up early.

“Good morning, my dears,” Marcus chirped as he walked into the parlour, immediately switching his light blue jacket for his usual pastel coloured apron. “How was everyone’s evening?”

“Dead.” Called Oscar from the back room.

“Wasn’t too bad, actually. The majority of the night was spent telling people that no, myself and Valentina aren’t together,” Flo laughed, sorting out the ice cream and scoops behind the counter. “Apparently two girls can’t represent their workplace at an event without being pounded with questions about their relationship.”

“To be fair, Flo, it wasn’t a professional event. And we did spend the majority of the evening drinking a little too much and holding onto each other’s hands. As we all know,” piped up Valentina who had sauntered into sight with a broom in her hand. “I’m a rather emotional drunk. So, after having a few too many cocktails, I started crying as I told Flo how gorgeous she looked. Clearly that would give off the impression something was happening.”

“You’d make a cute couple,” Marcus offered, flicking the sign to ‘Come in, we’re open!’ that hung on the front door. “By the way, not sure if Mr Pine spread the word, I booked the afternoon off. I won’t be coming back after lunch, so, it’s just you three.”

“What? Why?” Flo was the first to question him, suspiciously peering over at him from the top of the display case.

“Doctor’s appointment followed by a dentist appointment. All of my healthcare has fallen on the same day.” Marcus improvised, a gentle shrug of his shoulders hopefully adding to the believability of his excuse.

“Why does my grandfather never let me take time off, even when I’m on the brink of _death_ , but he lets you take half a day off with minimal notice?” Whined Oscar, who had now come into view with a variety of freshly washed tea cups to hang on the rack above their food preparation surface.

“I don’t know, Oscar, maybe it’s because I’m actually a good worker.”

“Harsh, my brother,” Oscar chuckled, hopping onto the counter to get a better view of the other three workers stood in the room. “We all still on for drinks this Saturday? This weekend can’t come quick enough, honestly.”

“Is that even a question?” Valentina asked, nodding in a manner so aggressive that her perfectly curled hair bounced and fell in front of her face. “Of course we all are. If any of you drop out I will-”

“Am I interrupting something?” A voice cut right through the middle of Valentina’s declaration. The unknown person’s accent was thick – Scottish? Marcus considered – and wove through their voice like thick treacle being oozed over a perfect slice of cake. There was a rather gruff tone to the person, but at the end of words the pitch rose ever so slightly, as if their voice still had late remnants of youthfulness cascading through their dialect. The voice was… familiar.

“Oh, no-!” Marcus looked up and turned to answer the evident customer, yet his voice failed him as he caught sight of who it was. He almost felt rather dizzy as he faced the shadowed figure stepping into the doorway; it took a while for the sunlight to hit them perfectly so all their facial features were visible but, when they did, Marcus felt like he needed to sit down. It was a cruel twist of fate, really, like someone had deliberately muddled with the formation of the universe to drop someone so pivotal from his past right in the centre of his present and his foreseeable future. With this figure rung back all the negative memories of the last time he _saw_ this person, memories that he didn’t want and could have happily lived the remainder of his eventless life without.

If he could’ve picked one person he never expected to see walk into his ice cream parlour, it would have been Oliver _freaking_ Wood. Stood with a rucksack hanging over his shoulders, calloused fingers clutching to the straps, he looked just as he did the last time Marcus had seen his face. His _face_ ; the dusting of freckles that scattered his skin had seemed to darken over time and his hair still retained its short, windswept look Marcus remembered from the countless Quidditch matches they played against each other. As Marcus’ eyes scanned the remainder of this _imposter_ everything somewhat started to make sense. Underneath his red, velvet jacket sat a worn out t-shirt displaying the word ‘Scotland’ printed in a small font underneath an off centred, small flag of the country. Marcus had been briefly informed through a letter at some point that Oliver had gone into professional Quidditch, but nobody had told him that he played for his country now. It was a shock and Marcus knew he looked a fool just stood there staring at this new customer. Or, at least, he looked a fool to everyone but Oliver who was staring back at him with the same glimmer of confusion and a hint of apprehension swimming in his eyes.

“Marcus,” it was Valentina’s sharp voice who cut into his internal breakdown and brought him back to reality. He stared at Oliver still, but eventually eased his gaze to Valentina after Oliver’s eyes broke the contact first. His _eyes_ , they still stared into his soul while providing an impenetrable shield to his own thoughts. “Are you okay? Do you know each other?”

“Not really!” Marcus snapped up, nervously wiping his suddenly damp hands over the material of his apron. He rushed around the counter, breathing deeply to compose himself, and faux nonchalantly set his arms on his hips as he addressed Oliver. “Sorry about that. How can I help you?”

Without even so much as glancing at the other three staff in the room he _knew_ their eyes were burning the side of his head from a spike in interest and curiosity. There was a nervous silence filling the air, a complete contrast to the usual happiness and light heartedness that families brought, Oliver looking at Marcus again with an essence of uncertainty in his gaze.

“Um- I was just… I was wondering if you were open? I know it’s quite early, but I’ve had a long journey and I kind of really need a cup of coffee.” Oliver explained, taking a hesitant step towards the counter. They were suddenly so close, only the counter acting as a physical barrier between them. Marcus didn’t know _why_ he was so overwhelmed by this; Oliver’s presence just reminded him of the war and how, as Marcus looked up at the arrowhead of broomsticks racing past, they last made eye contact between a shower of multi-coloured spells and echoing yells during the Battle of HogwartsHH.

Marcus jumped ever so slightly as Flo bumped into his side. Flo was usually the one who noticed when something was wrong and, luckily, interfered just at the right moment. There was something about the soothing hand now rubbing his wrist that told Marcus she knew there was an unsettling past between him and Oliver. “We are open. Welcome to _Pine Cones Ice Cream Parlour._ I’m assuming this is your first time here?”

Oliver nodded, fingers gently drumming the counter. “Yep, my first time in the country, actually. I’ve come from Scotland, see.” His free hand proudly gestured to the flag printed on his shirt.

“Scotland! Marcus here used to go to school up there. Small world,” Flo easily continued the conversation. “Anyway, welcome. We do serve coffee. We have just opened for the day, excuse the lack of menus and everything, but I’ll go pop to the back and get a mug for you. Oscar, Lena, we should go sort out the menus for the table, shouldn’t we?”

And, just like that, the three gatekeepers of the conversation had scuttled to the back of the parlour. The silence between Marcus and Oliver was almost deafening in a painfully metaphorical way. Marcus suddenly felt as small as a grain of sand on the beach a few yards away from the parlour; the way that Oliver was looking so inquisitively at him reimbursed the dusting of insecurity that had settled into Marcus’ skin.

“Do you want anything other than the coffee?” Was all Marcus could muster out and even that simple sentence was a bundle of shakes and hedges.

“You’re not going to try and start small talk are you, Flint?” The way Oliver uttered his surname figuratively sent him back seven or so years to when they were on their respective Quidditch teams, arguing over something or other in the changing rooms before a match. It struck him almost as hard as a Stunning spell would, except this made his heart ache as well as numbing his bones and his senses.

“I don’t know what else to say, Wood.”

“I mean, you could explain how you’ve ended up at the edge of the country in a tiny ice cream shop. I thought you’d be in London or something.” Oliver shrugged, examining the tubs of ice cream cluttering the display case to his right.

“I don’t understand why I owe you that sort of explanation, though. I’m here because I’m here. It’s where life brought me and it’s where I intend to stay.” Oliver’s head tilted to the side as if he wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

“Isn’t it a bit – empty?” Oliver inquired. “Also, since we’re here. Can I have a cone of that blue ice cream, please? It’s peaked my interest.”

“You want a cone of the bubble-gum ice cream? On a waffle cone, regular cone or teddy bear cone?” Marcus asked, waving a hand by the rack of exemplar cones atop of the display cabinet. “That’s why I like it here, I suppose. It’s empty. You’re the first person from my old life who I have ever come across.”

Oliver pondered for a moment, “teddy bear, please. And what do you mean by your old life? You can’t suddenly, I don’t know, change person completely.”

Marcus nodded, picking up one of the ice cream scoops and arranged two perfectly round spheres of the bubble-gum flavour into one of their teddy bear shaped cones. Usually exploited by children, the teddy bear cone had the regular triangular point at the bottom but, instead of a round top where the ice cream sat, there was a base with two little circular ears at the sides, decorated with a darker face to create the look of a teddy bear face painted on the cone. “I’m living life half as a Muggle and half as a wizard. I wouldn’t even say wizard, really. Half Muggle and half Squib. I don’t use my wand anymore, I don’t do any sort of magic. I know the magical community, but I never take advantage of that side. Everyone here thinks I’m just like them.”

“I never expected that from you,” Oliver started, rushing on after realising the slightly negative and reprimanding connotations to what he just said. “I mean, you know. You always loved magic, Marcus. I thought you’d be thrilled to finally get to work in a field that required it.”

“So did I. But,” Marcus handed the cone over to Oliver, only flinching slightly when their fingers brushed. He had half expected some cliché fireworks to erupt inside him, that was what usually happened in these situations (or, perhaps, given what he had just experienced, that was only an over-used descriptor in Muggle books and film), but it was just a little flinch from the contact with someone he hadn’t seen in a while. “Watching countless people be slaughtered by the means of magic does something to a person. Can’t even look at my wand without thinking about all the people who died at the hand of magic.”

“Thank you,” Oliver murmured, immediately taking a small, tentative lick of the ice cream. “Not bad. _Anyway_ , but you didn’t cast any Killing Curses. Surely it shouldn’t bother you? People kill using knives but I bet you use a knife every day to butter bread.”

“It’s different, Oliver. Besides, this is a conversation too deep to be having with anyone at this time of morning, especially _you_. So, in order to seem polite, what are _you_ doing in this little spike of the universe?” Marcus questioned, ringing the purchase through the till but dropped a couple of his own coins into the tray. They both knew Oliver had no Muggle money to pay for his food and drink, whenever that arrived. It was easier if they agreed through unspoken signals for Marcus to take care of the cost. Marcus momentarily forgot he was short on Muggle funds, a thought that wouldn’t strike him until later that night as he attempted to sleep.

“It’s never too early to talk about feelings, Marcus,” shrugged Oliver. “I’m here for the European Quidditch Championship, haven’t you read about it? Scotland are staying a little bit away in this expensive looking area by the sea. I’m on my way there but I think my Portkey was a little off. I needed somewhere to have a rest and this was the only place with open doors. It was meant to be a step in step out kind of thing, but I might come here more often knowing you work here.”

“Why would you do that?” Marcus asked, eyes narrowing and eyebrows curving into a displeased expression as he looked over to Oliver again. He couldn’t look at him for too long without getting a little out of breath; he would look and take in the person stood so close to him and become overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that swarmed in his mind. He was so, so scared to be this close to someone who reminded him of all the troubles that stuck to his mind but, at the same time, he felt so happy to talk to a familiar face again, to be brought back to the happiest years of his life at Hogwarts.

“It’s nice to see a friendly face, isn’t it? Someone from your past. And I know you’re here to forget about the past but I’m here for three weeks and you can guarantee you’ll be seeing plenty more of me.” Oliver explained, picking up one of the napkins to wipe the smeared blue ice cream dripping down his chin.

“I suppose it is…” Marcus agreed, swilling the ice cream scoop in the little bowl of water as a way to distract himself from the headache bubbling in the centre of his mind.

“So, I’ll see you aroun-?”

“Wait!” Marcus exclaimed, splashing some water over the floor from his rash actions. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. It kind of happens sometimes when I get a little overwhelmed. Personal problems: I’m dealing with them. Basically, I coach the local Youth Quidditch team here. And yesterday one of the parents suggested I try and get some of the Scottish team to come and say hey to my kids and talk to them since they’re staying so close, and I was supposed to be coming to stalk you all later to request this but I know I’ll wimp out because you’re all a little intimidating. Essentially – would you possibly be able to come to my training session at some point this week to inspire some little Quidditch players? I promise my boys are all lovely.” He was a _little_ out of breath and little embarrassed at the speed he just rushed his request off to Oliver. Marcus didn’t know _why_ he was so intimated to be speaking to Oliver considering he was older than the boy and had held more authority over him for the better part of their lives. He was always, despite Oliver possibly not admitting it, the best Quidditch captain during their Hogwarts years and had led to many more match wins. But something about being in one of the places Marcus felt so comforting, talking to someone who made him feel so unsure, rattled a horrid feeling deep in his stomach to the point he felt like he could throw up.

Oliver’s lips had curved into a sympathetic, yet kind, smile, a slight gap in his upper and bottom lip allowing Marcus to see a hint of his teeth. “Of course I can,” his confirmation accompanied a gentle nodding of his head. “I’d love to, actually. I’ll get some of my teammates to come along. It’ll probably be a few days away, our first match is in two days, but it’ll be nice to come back here. I’ll force you to show me the wizarding part of this town afterwards. It’ll be fun.”

“Thank you,” Marcus exhaled a deep breath he’d been constricting for the best part of two minutes. His body thanked him for finally regaining composure by diluting the feeling of fear in his stomach. It was replaced by a blooming thankfulness and excitement at what this could do for him. He had no intention to necessarily get to know Oliver again, but having a face from the better part of his life so close by had the potential to reassure him. If Oliver could be so content and so perfect following the trauma he also experienced then why couldn’t Marcus? “That means a lot. Just pop back in when you have a date in mind. Don’t go out of your way or anything. If you’re too busy then you’re too busy, you know?”

“I won’t be too busy. I’ll come in soon, trust me,” Oliver dumped his used napkin in the bin as he turned from the counter, reconnecting the curves of his fingers with the straps of his rucksack. “It’s good to see you, Marcus. Really good. You’re looking well.”

“So are you.” Marcus murmured, out of earshot as Oliver had already plodded back out the parlour. He had looked side to side, checking that nobody was about, before shivering out of sight as he apparated to wherever the team were staying. Marcus slumped, knees buckling and arms cushioning his face as he freely plummeted to the surface of the counter.

He was already exhausted and his day had only been alight for an hour or so. The gentle shuffling of footsteps alerted him of the presence of his co-workers conveniently re-entering the main space of the parlour; a gentle clinking of ceramic touching ceramic told Marcus someone had brought him the cup of coffee that was probably intended for Oliver, and a series of gentle pats on the small of his back became a wave of soothing reassurance that he was still alive and still breathing.

“Who was that then?” It was Valentina who posed the question that Marcus knew everyone had been wondering since he zoned out earlier on. A deflated sigh fell from the lips of Marcus, head hesitantly rising as he looked between the three figures looking interrogatively at him.

“Old school friend.” He uttered, a sentence which was, for the first time, a whole truth.

“Did you date or something?”

Marcus scoffed, shaking his head as he shakily lifted the cup of coffee to his lips. “No. We used to be pretend rivals at the school sport. We were captains. It was all in the name of house rivalry.”

“Why were you so shocked to see him, then?” This time it was Oscar furthering the spoon of curiosity down his throat. Marcus had been expecting a flurry of questions from them but all he really wanted to do was take an early break and sink into a chair while he regained all sense of direction, time and emotion.

“I’ve been detached from that side of my life for so long, you guys know I don’t see my family or school friends, it’s just a bit surprising seeing someone walk into this place when it’s so far away from home. It’s like, for example, if your dad walked in here, Flo. He has no idea you work here, so him rolling up would be very shocking.” Marcus said, dipping his mug into the sink to clean it up for customer use the moment his lips had drained every ounce of coffee from it.

“Yeah, that makes sense. Glad you’re alright though, my love.” Flo reassured, her now magenta coloured lips pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Marcus just nodded, looking longingly out the window at the spot where Oliver had disappeared from. He couldn’t understand it at all, really, how the world had formed such a drastic coincidence that Oliver would be reintroduced into his life at this exact moment. Marcus was suddenly thrown back into the magical world he had for so long dreamt to escape, orbiting the centre of his universe again. He was confused as to how his and Oliver’s paths had crossed, how their lives had tumbled into each other resulting in their planets following the same orbit. It scared him slightly knowing he was _so_ close to being tossed back into the life of spells and enchantments that had plagued his nightmares for longer than he wished to admit. It was _terrifying_ , shaking him right to his bones that everything he had built up the past two years was suddenly at the risk of being obliterated by a person he had almost entirely wiped from his memory.

But still, to his surprise, Marcus couldn’t stop watching the space somewhat wishing that Oliver would come back and tell him everything was okay. That his family were happy, his old friends were living their lives filled with glee and success. He had for so long hidden from communication with his past in the fear that the ones he loved wouldn’t respond, that perhaps in some additional sick twist of fate everyone he knew and had grown up with had been removed from the world.

Oliver didn’t return, nor did he leave the mind of Marcus as he worked through the rest of the day with his mind preoccupied by the possibility of someone else shimmying through the door to invade his life again. Perhaps Harry Potter was taking an impromptu holiday to the seaside and was craving a banana split sundae, or Pansy Parkinson was visiting the area to reacquaint herself with her Welsh roots – she was Welsh, right? – and this was where she had brought her distant family. Marcus’ head shook, disappointed that he was letting himself slip back to his old ways.

He was going to be _fine_. Oliver was here for a few weeks and would drift out of his life just as he had barged back in again so suddenly. Marcus wouldn’t even realise he was gone or that he had ever arrived; he didn’t know why he was so panicked by the concept of having Oliver in his proximity again. It was mid-afternoon by the time Marcus had somewhat managed to shake the feeling of Oliver’s eyes digging into his soul from his mind again as he walked back into _Coney’s_ after taking lunch back in his apartment.

“Uhm – Marcus?” Valentina questioned, mid-scoop. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a doctor’s appointment?”

Needless to say, Marcus hurried back out of the parlour before anyone else could question him. He was a mess, a puddle of Marcus-flavoured ice cream trailing around the floor like a dejected slug who had finished destroying a nutritional leaf and had to find somewhere else to hide. It was unenjoyable, but there was still a flicker in the back of his mind that teased him about the prospect of familiarising himself with Oliver again. One thing Marcus was sure of, though, was that this little gem by the side of the ocean was about to become much more interesting than it ever had been before.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the european tournament kicks off and, despite not attending the first game, marcus finds himself getting closer to one particular player after being invited to see the second match. marcus hoped for the bubbling interactions to cease the moment he left the pitch that afternoon; being by the seaside in a perfectly romantic town doesn’t bode well for his wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long. school, uni and work took over. happy christmas x
> 
> tumblr: scorpiusmlafoy

It was too early in the morning; the sun was just about rising in the distance, rays skimming over the eternal presence of the sea before them. The water was rising, crawling up the rocky surface of the beach as the waves fell into high tide for the first time that day. Pebbles of all shapes and sizes scattered alongside a mixture of broken shells and muscles within the clumped sand, some of them being disturbed as a curious hand examined the washed up remnants along the shore. Underneath their feet, one set barefoot and the other protected by a too-old pair of trainers, the rocks scratched together as the pressure of their footsteps forced them further into the ground.

Marcus wasn’t used to being up this early on a Monday; his clock read six-fifteen in the morning when his body rudely forced him to wake and, rather than mulling around in his apartment until he had to show at work, Marcus decided to accompany Valentina for a session of her daily seaside scavenging. Before she dropped out of university Valentina had been studying Biological Sciences with the hope of taking up a career in a Marine Biology laboratory. Her roots back in Mexico had exposed her to a variety of marine wildlife before she even knew what the animals were called; her younger days were spent watching bottlenose dolphins glide through the shimmering Gulf alongside a rainbow of fish and dwelling sea turtles. Valentina’s interest had only developed as she grew older however, unfortunately, as she pursued it further at university she was disappointed at the lack of marine focus to her course. She dropped out, went on her travels to the northern coast and finally took to residing in the little Welsh town where she and Marcus were watching from the surface of the North Shore.

Marcus followed behind silently as Valentina systematically crouched to examine a pebble, piece of seaweed or item of discarded plastic litter, occasionally adding one to her little pouch she carried during these morning adventures. Marcus had only been to her little, ground-floor apartment a couple of times but he knew that Valentina had set up her own miniature laboratory in the spare guest room. She had shelves hanging on the walls crowded with different types of marine samples and had started trying to begin constructing a conservation project for a pod of dolphins who graced the West Shore during the spring, summer and autumn seasons. Valentina greatly inspired Marcus and he was always grateful for her friendship and the time they spent together outside the main group of four; despite not knowing where her future was necessarily going to lead, Valentina was striving to do something that made her _happy_ and for that Marcus admired her.

“Marcus, look!” Gasped Valentine, spinning so quickly her half pinned up hair spiralled round and gently caught Marcus across his cheek. Her topaz eyes glistened with immense happiness as she held up her cupped hands, interwoven fingers acting as a cushioned surface for the creature she was so delicately holding. “It’s a starfish! A live one at that. Usually all the starfish I find on the shores have already dried up. Oh my _God_ , I need to get it into some sea water before it gets hurt.”

In a rash flinging of motions Valentina so suddenly placed the starfish in Marcus’ hands as she whisked a glass jar from her pouch (“a marine biologist is never prepared without a few jars” Valentina had once said) and rushed to the edge of the sea to fill the container. As soon as Marcus had processed what she was doing, Valentina had returned and already placed her new roommate into the jar.

“There we go. Hopefully they’ll be okay until I can get them into my tank at home.” Valentina smiled, handing the jar back to Marcus so she could continue perusing the ground.

“Why don’t you just put him back into the water?” Marcus asked, faintly giggling to himself as he watched the starfish’s points glide around the contents of the jar.

“Hold the jar up so you can see the bottom,” instructed Valentina, coming up next to Marcus so the two of them could both look at the jar. “See its’ tube legs? They’re moving, but only slightly. This little guy is very dried up, close to death I’d say. So I’m going to take them home for the rest of the day so they can hydrate and recover a little bit and then put them back in the ocean this evening. I don’t intend to keep the little guy or anything like that. It’s bad to keep starfish, they get stressed in small environments after being taken from their natural habitat. But because this one looks like he’s been out of water for a while, I think they’ll appreciate being submerged again rather than worrying about space. One they’ve healed a little I’ll bring them back out here and set them free. Plus I’m keeping a constant count of all the types of creatures I see so I need to document this little one’s statistics as well.”

“Right.” Marcus nodded, watching as Valentina poured a few handfuls of sand into the jar to accompany to the starfish. If he was to tell the truth he really didn’t understand anything that Valentina just told him but he enjoyed listening to her talk about her passion so he hadn’t the heart to interrupt. It was nice being in the company of a person so sure about their interests that they’d dedicated their life thus far to delving into the deepest books and situations to improve their knowledge of it; Marcus knew Valentina was so in love with marine wildlife from the way facts about particular species rolled off her tongue as if she were reciting the alphabet.

“The pretty boy from the other day hasn’t come back into the parlour recently, has he?”

Marcus stuttered on his breath, choking slightly on the splatter of his own saliva that hit the back of his throat from his sharp intake of oxygen. “What?”

“You know, pretty boy. Old school friend. Guy who made you clearly weak at your knees. You literally fell to the floor when he left.” Valentina chuckled, tossing a knowing and suggestive smile in Marcus’ direction.

“I don’t know what you’re alluding too, Valentina Cantu. But whatever it is you better wipe it from your thoughts immediately.”

“Oh come _on_ , Flinty. Mysterious Scottish figure from your ambiguous past stumbles into our little parlour causing you to crumble to a pile of worthless mumbles and you expect me to brush it to the side? The whole scenario is just spelling out a wonderful rekindling love story! I don’t believe for a second you never had a fling at some point.” Valentina _proudly_ declared, so sure of her thoughts that there wasn’t a single essence of uncertainty in her voice.

“We never had a fling, Lena. I promise. We were _enemies_ for the majority of our schooling life. We were rival captains, opposite houses. I hardly ever spoke to him apart from during matches of the school sport or something like that. We almost had a physical fight once,” Marcus explained, a little snicker filling the air as he recounted the time the two of them were prepared to duel each other as a way to decide whether Gryffindor or Slytherin were allowed to use the pitch to train one morning. “And I wasn’t a pile of worthless mumbles!”

There was a pause, the two of them looking at each other with similar, knowing expressions. “Okay, so perhaps I was a _slight_ pile of worthless mumbles. However, I was overwhelmed and I think I handled the situation rather well given how surprising it was.”

“If that helps you to sleep at night, gorgeous, then sure. You definitely weren’t a mess,” said Valentina. “We should head back. I need to drop our little friend back to my apartment and we’ll be needed at work soon. Is it Flo or Oscar bringing the keys today? They should be there soon.”

“Supposed to be Flo, I think. But she always forgets them so, for all we know, she could be stuck outside as well,” Marcus chuckled, handing to jar back over to Valentina. “See you at work?”

Valentina nodded, shooting a final wink to Marcus. “Flo isn’t that forgetful, Marcus. I’d bet good money that she’ll already have sorted out the outside tables and organised all the cabinets by the time we get there.”

“Since when are you so defensive of Florence Whittaker?” Marcus pressed, raising his eyebrow in a mockingly suggestive manner; if Valentina was allowed to tease him about Oliver then he was _definitely_ allowed to do the same.

Valentina simply shrugged, locks of hair falling from her shoulders. “I’m not defensive. But yes, see you at work.”

 

“I can’t believe you actually managed to persuade _Oliver Wood_ to come and see our team!” Julia was gushing, as Marcus had predicted she would, over the news that he’d managed to sort a visit from the Scottish Quidditch team out. It had been exactly three days since he’d encountered Oliver that fateful morning in _Coney’s_ , but today was the first time he’d come into _The Welsh Green Tea Shop_ since it had all happened; his excuse for dodging the shop, when he’d come in for the beginning of his lunch hour, was that he had some problems with his flat and needed to be there when some mechanic, or someone else like that, came to fix his imaginary faults. Marcus had mentally scolded himself for telling a little lie to Julia (he really did lie quite a lot sometimes, perhaps not life-changing lies, but his list of slight bent truths had been every growing for a few years), but knew that she wouldn’t be bothered either way if the truth ever found its way to her.

“Technically it’s my team, but-”

“I mean, Oliver Wood! He’s brilliant, isn’t he? I thought you might have come across him at some point because, you know, you both went to Hogwarts but – oh, how wonderful is this, my love? The young ones are going to be so _thrilled_ when they find out! Did you see the first Scottish game yesterday?” Julia interrupted _and_ rambled on, tossing her hand in the air in an evocative way to show her emotions. One things Marcus had noticed about Julia throughout the two years of knowing her had been that she presented herself as a very expressive person. She proudly made the most of her emotions and combined her silky voice with extensive gestures so that she was never misunderstood. And it worked, as far as Marcus knew, for nobody ever protested anything she said or ever argued with her; Julia was so perfectly put together and so confident that Marcus wished he could absorb a little of that self-certainty she would definitely be passing on to Rory.

“I suppose he’s okay… I mean, I’ve never really kept up with him. And, well. The world is a big place isn’t it?” Shrugged Marcus, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t see the game. Went out with some friends.”

“Oh! Marcus, you missed out on something amazing. I thought you would’ve gone to see it? It was amazing. Little Rory, bless his heart, the match was against Spain and he was so enthralled by the Spanish flag he bought a little hat with it across the front. It’d adorable, I’ll get him to show you later. But the match, well! Scotland won, obviously, I don’t think Oliver has ever let a goal past him in his entire professional career.” Julia was positively _gushing_ about Oliver. It almost made Marcus feel a little sick on the inside, not out of any negative emotion but purely out of slight _weirdness_ that one of his closest friends couldn’t stop talking about this figure he’d known his whole schooling life.

“It almost sounds like you’re in love, Ms. Davies. Low standards or something?”

“ _Low?_ Oh, Marcus. Have you seen him? He’s gorgeous!” Julia almost sounded disappointed that Marcus could imply that her beloved Wood could be anything other than God-like. She scrambled across the counter to toss the _Daily Prophet_ at him, perfectly manicured fingernail pointing directly at a front page photograph of the face he recognised oh so well.

“I wouldn’t exactly say gorgeous, but…” Marcus trailed off, head tilting to the side as he watched the animated photograph of Oliver move. He was gripping his broom with one hand, the other proudly reaching to the air as he celebrated the win of their first game. His eyes twinkled, the light wash of freckles covering his cheeks looking like little specs of dirt from the monochrome colour of the paper. It was sweet, really. The photograph and the pure look of elation over his face reminded Marcus of how happy Oliver used to be whenever he won a single match back at Hogwarts.

 _Hogwarts_ he thought. That all felt like a lifetime ago, but he knew there was always something keeping him from completely forgetting about the magnificent castles and pillars that stretched into the air, proudly boasting of their history and beauty. Even now, with Oliver apparating back into his life, it seemed impossible Marcus would ever truly forget about his wizarding life.

“You can’t lie to me, Marcus. You’re drooling over his photograph.” Julia teased, placing a fresh cup of tea in front of him.

“What-?” Marcus hurried a rough swipe over his chin, collecting the dampness of the drool Julia had noted. “That’s not because of him, madam. It’s because of your gorgeous food.”

“Oh hush, you little one. He’s gorgeous and you _know_ it!”

“Who’s gorgeous?”

Of _course_. Marcus sighed; a deep, defeated exhale elapsed his body as he turned to look at the figure who slumped down next to him. Fate kept twisting its meticulous path as if to sinisterly make Marcus’ life infinitely harder. He could’ve predicted this: Oliver Wood waltzing into his safe space in his little Welsh town a few days after embarrassingly meeting in an ice cream shop.

“Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting?” Oliver’s smile _beamed_ in the darkness of the café. Though the lights were dim and the weather outside had turned to typical British dullness he seemed to flash the customers with a ray of sunlight. His eyes crinkled slightly, teeth showing through a slight separation between his top and bottom lip. It was almost cruel, Marcus thought, how someone could have so many perfections. _Perfections?_ Marcus had never used the word perfection in relation to Oliver before.

“No! Oh Merlin, of course you aren’t. Well this is a glorious surprise, isn’t it!” Julia declared. She didn’t even extend her question to Marcus because she knew he would agree. Marcus pondered for a moment why Oliver had returned to this little corner of Wales when he was much closer to a more urban and popular part. It seemed peculiar he’d come back to Llandudno when Conwy boasted a castle among other touristy elements for him to sink his teeth into.

“Yeah, sure?” Marcus hesitantly answered, busying himself with a long drink of his tea. His tongue and cheeks simultaneously burned, one from the tea and the other for reasons Marcus did not want to question.

“What can I get for you, Oliver? Oh! Pardon me, where are my manners. I’m Julia Davies, the owner. This is Marcus Flint, he’s wonderful. What can I get for you Mr Wood?” The colour on Julia’s cheeks made Marcus feel a little better about his current predicament. She was clearly as overwhelmed as he was, something that he hoped Oliver would pick up on.

Oliver laughed. His laugh was slightly coarse and, if possible, his accent trickled into the deep exhales of breath that he was making. His hand raised, swatting away her apologies as he looked up to the menu board. “It’s perfectly fine, madam. You can call me Oliver. And I know Marcus, we have history,” he explained. “The Butterbeer hot chocolate has peaked my interest. One of those, please?”

“You have history? Marcus, why are you lying to me all of a sudden?” Julia tutted, casting a curious eye in his direction. “One Butterbeer hot chocolate? Coming your way.”

“I’m not lying to you! History doesn’t mean I still know him. I haven’t spoken to anyone I used to socialise with for years. You know this.” Marcus’ last comment was a slight hiss under his voice, scolding Julia in some way. He wasn’t necessarily embarrassed about her finding out they had ‘history’, as Oliver had so eloquently put it, he just didn’t want the conversation between himself and the man sat next to him to escalate to anything about their past.

“You haven’t?” Oliver queried, eyes flicking around Marcus’ face as if he was trying to read a map. Marcus hoped the colour of his cheeks and the lines on his face wouldn’t direct Oliver to any sort of conclusion. In fact he hoped the expression on his face would end the conversation before it started. “Oh wait, of course. You mentioned that in the Parlour the other day.”

“You remember that? Here was me hoping you’d forget all about that interaction.” Marcus groaned.

“Why in the world do you want me to forget about it?”

“Because I was a mess?” Marcus stated as though the fact was obvious.

“No you weren’t, don’t be silly. You were overwhelmed.” Shrugged Oliver, giving a grateful smile in Julia’s direction as she placed a mug in front of him. Marcus was almost offended at the level of beauty she’d put into the drink. He’d been coming here almost every day since moving to the seaside and _never_ had she put so much whipped cream or Butterbeer syrup on one of his drinks.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a while. In the back if you need me, Marcus.” Then with a soothing squeeze of his hand and a loving smile she had gone. The situation almost felt like one of those awful romance movies he’d watched with Flo or Valentina. Despite the café buzzing with custom it seemed like a hypothetical camera had zoomed in on them and isolated the pair to a room of silence. The present feeling of Oliver’s gaze burned his skin, almost like he was trying to see right into his heart and soul. Marcus felt rather intimidated.

“She seems nice.” Oliver plucked up conversation again, having turned to the side so he was better facing Marcus.

“She’s wonderful. Took me into her arms when I first got here. Before I found a place to rent she let me stay upstairs and– and I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” Marcus cut himself short, busying himself with the action of wiping the pad of his thumb around the rim of his mug. He felt almost self-conscious, like the singular look off Oliver equated to the entirety of the wizarding world judging his choices to drop off the face of the earth.

“You’re telling me this because… I don’t know. But I’m interested.” Oliver shrugged.

“Why are you interested, though?”

“Why not?”

Marcus let out an annoyed groan, shoulders slumping slightly. He’d forgotten how stubborn and hence infuriating Oliver could be sometimes. He daren’t think about all of their past, usually negative, conversations and took to focusing on the present instead.

“Because I’m Marcus Flint and you’re Oliver Wood?”

“You’re not alluding to the Hogwarts rivalry here are you?”

“Merlin, _no._ The past is the past! Childish rivalries really don’t matter in this day and age. I’m saying I don’t understand why you care because you’re Oliver Wood, famous Quidditch player who is an example of someone succeeding post-War. Meanwhile I’m Marcus Flint, wizarding world drop out who shows the failure of people post-War.” Marcus explained.

“I’m not understanding how you preach that the past is the past while shaming yourself for a War which happened in the past. It’s like you’re punishing yourself for a choice that you made forever ago.” Oliver reasoned. Marcus couldn’t tell whether Oliver was attempting to be reassuring or trying to pry further into his reasons for moving here. It had just been so long since Marcus had conversed with someone of a similar nature that he felt his heart forcing him to expose all of his thoughts from the last few years.

“I’m not shaming myself. I don’t know. My mind is a frazzled mess when it comes to talking about these sorts of things.” Marcus sighed.

“Let’s talk about other things, then,” Oliver offered, clearly sensing the essence of defeat that had laced its way into Marcus’ tone. “This Quidditch thing you asked about. Why don’t you bring the team to the next game and then I’ll come talk to them the session after that? I think they should get to see a proper match and then some of my teammates and I can ask them what they thought. Field trip leading into follow up work or something like that.”

“Are you sure you want to help me? You really don’t have to. I mean, that offer sounds absolutely wonderful but I’d hate to think I’m being a burden on your time here. You could be focusing more heavily on training.” Marcus shrugged.

“Are you implying that I need more training, Flint?” Oliver teased.

Marcus rolled his eyes, a gentle chuckle getting caught in his throat. “You know what I mean, Oliver.”

“It’s weird hearing you call me Oliver. Nice, but weird. Anyway, of course I’d like to help. I was once a crazy Quidditch kid and it would’ve meant the world to me if I got to meet a professional team. It’ll be fun. If they’re being trained by you they’ve got to be good.” Oliver explained, dabbing a napkin over his top lip after he’d finished his drink.

“Thanks, I like to think my little ones are great,” Marcus knew he was beaming. He could feel his face light up at the mention of his team. “And it’s weird? Why?”

It was Oliver’s turn to shrug now. “Just is. I’m not used to this sort of conversation with you. I like it though.”

“So do I,” there was a pause, only the gentle puffs of their breathing filling the space between them. “But as much as I like it, I need to get back to work. Business will probably be dead because of the rain but my lunch break ended about five minutes.”

“Can I walk with you? I need to head back to training soon anyway.”

“Sure. That’ll be nice.”

Oliver smiled, possibly a little too wide in Marcus’ opinion. “Great. Let’s head off then.”

 

Marcus could already feel the stares from his co-workers as he crossed the street to _Coney’s_ with Oliver by his side. His thoughts were correct: there wasn’t a single person inside the ice cream shop save for the other three. Through the open door he could see Florence staring at him, hands propped on her hips in an almost accusing way.

His hair had dampened from the rain and clumps were beginning to stick to his forehead as the two of them arrived under the protection of a table umbrella. “This is me, then.” Marcus commented, internally cringing at how _cheesy_ that sounded. It was the sort of sentence he’d say to someone as he was dropped back at home following a date, not at all what he’d say to someone who he walked back to work with. Oliver smiled, though, a curved expression that seemed to wipe all elements of worry out of Marcus’ mind.

“I’ll drop the match tickets off with the lady at the tea shop. It’s this Saturday. If you’re free afterwards we could go get a drink and catch up more. I know you’re not really into the old life but if you’re interested in hearing about what’s happened to all our school friends I can fill you in.” Oliver suggested.

The preposition danced over the line between a friendly get together and a date. He didn’t know what side of the coin Oliver was currently stood on but he hoped for both of their sakes that it was still the friendly-get-together one. He looked so hopeful, though, that it almost hurt Marcus thinking about saying no.

“That sounds quite nice, actually. Yeah, we can. Unless you lose and need to spend the evening wallowing in pity.”

“I never lose, Marcus, you know this.”

“Sure.” Marcus elongated his reply, throwing a wink in Oliver’s direction.

“Saturday?” Oliver asked.

“Saturday.”

And then Oliver was gone, spun on his heel with a mock salute to his forehead. He ducked into a telephone box and disappeared into the rainy air. Watching him flicker out of sight sent his head rushing at the nostalgic feeling of apparating. It had been so long since he’d thought about doing so that seeing someone else effortlessly do the magic made him dizzy. Marcus just shook his head, brushing down his jeans before his bounced back into the parlour.

“Lunch date?” It was Lena who made the first comment, grinning over the top of her book.

“Hush, you.”

“Lunch date with a promise of drinks this Saturday? You know I have exceptional hearing, Flinty.” Then Flo popped up, gently patting Marcus on his back.

“Not a lunch date and no, not exactly. Just catching up.”

“Catching up with an unusual old school friend who had you basically worshiping the ground he walked on before? Come on, Marcus. We aren’t idiots.” And finally Oscar.

“You’re all the worst. I hate you all.” Marcus whined, tying his apron back around his waist.

“You hate us as much as you hate him, my love,” Lena smiled, having placed her bookmark between the browning pages so she could focus on the conversation. “He seems nice. He makes you happy and that’s all that matters.”

“I feel like my life has skipped two months and I didn’t even notice. It’s not even been a week. That’s the second time I’ve seen him. I don’t know why you lot are basically planning my wedding when I hardly know him.”

“Marcus, we’re all mid-twenty year olds living in a society full of pensioners. Can you blame us for acting like teenagers when someone’s love life seems to perk up?” Flo chuckled, throwing a cloth in his direction. “Mop the counter, why don’t you. Seeing as you went fifteen minutes over your lunch break.”

“Come on, Flo. We’re off now. Hope you guys survive the really busy custom we’re all having.” The sarcasm in Oscar’s voice oozed into his utterance so easily. He was incredibly witty, something Marcus deeply envied.

Marcus tossed the cloth onto the counter as soon as Flo left and hopped onto the surface instead. Valentina looked at him so inquisitively he knew there was some form on interrogation happening soon. Despite the four of them being a close knit group of friends Marcus always found himself gravitating towards Valentina. There was something soothing about her presence that made him feel as though he could trust her with absolutely anything.

“Go on, then. Lay all your questions on me.”

“You know I only have questions because you’re so happy, Marcus,” Her accent felt like a dream, if words could take such a sensation. She was incredibly soft in her approach to these sorts of topics, the nature of her ancestry almost filling her with some predetermined ability to be a good listener. “Well, you know. You just look happier all of a sudden.”

“I’m not meaning to, though. I’m terrified, really. Absolutely terrified.”

“Why, though?”

“Because he is a personification of my past coming to haunt me again. He’s everything I tried to escape coming back to me in one foul swoop, you know? I know it sounds extreme but it’s true. I came from a bad place at a bad time and seeing him reminds me of all of that. And it terrifies me knowing he wants to get to know me better because every time I see him it takes me right back to the last time I saw him.”

Marcus couldn’t explain to her the fear that filled him when he looked at Oliver for too long. He hated the fact that seeing his eyes and hearing his voice took him right back to the Battle that had still scarred him. He felt like the only person who hadn’t healed from the scars of the conflict; he blamed himself for that, really. Marcus knew that completely isolating himself from that community without allowing himself time to heal definitely caused more harm than good but he was too _petrified_ to do anything about it. All of his memories of home, school and the past were still tainted by the negativity and fear that enveloped them as they were unfolding. The last images he had of Scotland were of damage and fear. His family’s faces painted with utter dejection at the uncertainty that clouded their lives. Marcus knew he hadn’t allowed himself the time to heal. He was never around to see the rebuilding of the community. Instead he fled to somewhere new, too scared to face the recovery that he thought compressing the feelings would make everything better.

“I know you aren’t one to talk about these sorts of things with me or any of the others, but perhaps this is your chance to get it off your chest. I mean, this shadow of a person from your past, someone who clearly experienced the same things you did if he reminds you of it all, has miraculously appeared in your life. It’s basically fate giving you the opportunity to wipe your plate clear and start new.” Lena offered, pushing a cup of water in his general direction.

“I suppose so… it’s just hard, you know? Having to go back and face up to everything that happened in the past, all the mistakes you made.” Marcus murmured, a gentle shrug of his shoulders being followed by him downing the glass of water. The iciness slithered down his throat, cooling the warming fear inside of him.

“Yeah… but you know that whatever mistakes you made in the past don’t matter here. You always have us.” Lena smiled.

“I know,” Marcus smiled. “Always have you three.”

 

The rains passed over by the following Saturday and soon _Coney’s_ was back to its peak business. Marcus offered to take up extra hours to fill the time between last seeing Oliver and the Quidditch game. The early summer crowds of families from all over the country, even all over the world, filtered in and out of the shop like the coffee did into their mugs and before Marcus even realised he was stood outside the Wales Quidditch Centre waiting – rather impatiently – for Oliver to bless him with his presence. It felt as if he had blinked and missed the whole week, including the game he had brought his little ones to see.

The seats Oliver managed to reserve for the team and their parents were surprisingly good given they were snapped up mere days before the game. All the little ones had t-shirts emblazoned with the Scottish flag as though they were honouring the man who got them all to see the game. Watching their tiny, chubby faces light up with excitement as the players swooped over their heads reminded Marcus of the first Quidditch game he ever saw.

It was one of the World Cup games, Italy against Australia. The tickets were a Christmas present from his parents and the weekend away to the game with his dad was one of the only bonding experiences they ever shared together. He remembered drinking his first Butterbeer as they sidestepped into their seats, recalled the feeling of adrenaline pumping through his veins as a flurry of scarves, shirts and flares from souvenirs created an ocean of colour around the stadium. The crowds were the biggest he’d ever seen and knowing he was surrounded by people who adored the sport as much as he did made Marcus feel at home.

Looking around at this team and seeing the familiar signs of elation and disbelief glistening in their eyes was bittersweet. Some of them were experiencing their first _proper_ Quidditch game. It was yet another memory that made Marcus’ heart hurt slightly as he thought of the easier times of his life, before everything went wrong. Scotland won, of course, and Oliver seemed to retain his perfect record of not allowing any goals in. it was a spectacle really watching him be so _good_ at his sport. Marcus felt slightly honoured to be in the stadium where such talent was being explored. If someone told him many years ago he’d be sat in a stadium watching his rival captain Oliver Wood be one of the best young talents of the Quidditch world Marcus probably would have laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

Marcus’ head lifted, blinking rapidly as he focused back to reality. Reality, he thought. His reality seemed to be Oliver Wood stood in front of him, bag slung over his shoulder as he looked inquisitively at Marcus.

“I’m not?” Marcus tried, very aware that he had been laughing and that he most likely looked incredibly ridiculous to anyone passing by.

“You are,” Oliver smiled, lifting a hand up to the path ahead. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” Marcus replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they began to dawdle down the path. He hadn’t a clue where they were heading or what to expect from the evening, all he knew was that this was a chance for him to start somewhat fresh and clear up everything that been plaguing his mind for the best part of his recent life. “You were really good this evening. My little guys are really excited to get to talk to you next week.”

“Thanks,” Oliver sounded sincere, mostly. There was a hint of something in his voice that Marcus didn’t quite understand but decided to not focus on it. Things were far too complicated already for him to think about exploring Oliver’s true thoughts at the moment. “I’m looking forward to coming to see you coach. It’ll be fun.”

“So where are we headed, then?” Marcus decided to push the conversation on to something different. He wasn’t the best at conversation sometimes but he could tell when someone was uncomfortable, and it was clear that Oliver didn’t really want to speak about Quidditch.

“I’m not too sure. Was hoping you’d direct me to some good wizarding bar or something like that.”

“The only bar here will be full of drunken Quidditch fans, to be honest.” Marcus shrugged.

“Any Muggle bars?” Oliver asked.

“There’s a couple, but-“

“But your friends might be in them?” Oliver finished.

Marcus sighed, looking up to Oliver with a face full of apologies. “Yeah, sorry. They’re just… being annoying friends, you know? I’d rather escape the teasing. I also blew off drinks with them to come to the game.”

Oliver nodded, kicking a stone he’d picked up along the way down the path as they connected back onto a main footpath to the town centre. “I understand. They seem like the kind to suspect things. We could head to the beach?”

“Pardon?”

“Pick up some drinks and head to the beach. It is low tide, isn’t it? Grab something, sit on the sand or something. Then there’s no drunk fans or prying best friends anywhere. Just you me and the waves.”

“Yeah,” Marcus smiled. “That sounds nice.”

And so they walked with purpose. Their gentle bubble of conversation focused mainly on the town as their silhouette’s past down side streets on their windy path to the beach. Oliver seemed beyond intrigued about the concept of a seaside town and Marcus soon found himself going into the logistics of winter and spring and how the lack of custom left them all struggling for cash. His freckled face lit up as Marcus spoke on and on about living a Muggle life, constantly interjecting with questions about their culture and their careers and what it’s like to hide such an important part of his life from some of his closest friends. Their interactions seemed easy, the turn taking flowing so smoothly there was never a moment of intensity or awkwardness. It warmed Marcus’ heart slightly to be so close to someone he knew again. listening to the Scottish accent roll of Wood’s tongue as he delved into his thoughts on the seaside town economic crisis and how he thought there should be holiday’s all year round felt so natural. It was soothing yet still damaging to his already broken soul.

They picked up some cans of Butterbeer and Fire Whisky, something that the local pub had started selling as to ease the thick trade during the holiday season. Marcus carried the Butterbeer, Oliver carried the Whisky, their cans gently knocking into each other as they slugged their way down to the North Shore. The sea was halfway between high and low tide, the gentle waves leaving a foamy residue further out the sand. Remnants of rocks, seaweed and jellyfish littered the sand like a natural blanket of plastic wrappers would on the pavement. They headed towards one of the jetties, setting their jackets down over the slightly damp wooden structure as they got comfortable. The waves lapped ever so slightly below their dangling legs, shells beaming up at them from the reflections of a gentle light from the pier above.

Aside from the rustling sea and the popping of cans it was silent. Their breathing was quiet in comparison to the distant crashing ocean. Marcus almost felt dirty for coming out here to taint the tranquillity and calmness of the seaside with their conversation. It was as if they were interrupting the lives of all the sea creatures with their unnecessary voices, unwanted neighbours causing a fuss in the darkening evening.

“You always look very deep in thought.” Oliver was the first one to break the silence, can of Butterbeer held up to his lips. Marcus cast a cautious glance his way, a faint smile appearing on his lips as a layer of foam outlined the peachy edge of Oliver’s dimples.

“What can I say? The sea breeze makes me philosophical.”

“Why don’t you do magic anymore?”

Marcus sputtered slightly, finger gently scratching the side of his nose in an attempt to seem nonchalant between his outburst of surprise. “You’re cutting to the chase this evening aren’t you?”

“I’m not here to dance around the delicate subjects and ask about your favourite ice cream flavour, Marcus.” Oliver replied, blunt as a pencil.

“I don’t need it anymore,” was Marcus’ initial, simple reply. He could tell from Oliver’s extended silence and the glimmer in his eyes that the simplicity didn’t satisfy him. “The more I did magic the more it became second nature. Flicking my wand to do this, clicking my fingers to do that. I did try and retain a balance to begin with, but I kept accidentally making things move at work so I had to stop. In the break room I made a cup of tea with my wand and Lena – Valentina, that is – walked in on me. It was hard to explain. Just caused more problems than it was worth, really.”

“Do you not miss it? How easy it makes everything? It’s like you’re trying to shred this part of your life.”

“It made things easy, yeah, but it’s not that hard to get over. It’s like anything you get used to. Take sugar, for example. You have sugar in drinks and trying to cut it out your diet is hard. But you get there eventually and suddenly you forget what four sugars in your tea ever tasted like.” Marcus knew his analogy didn’t make much sense and that the two weren’t necessarily comparable, but it was late and he hoped Oliver wouldn’t care that much.

“Forgive me for being _that_ person, but those are different things. You kind of choose to have sugar in your tea, but you were born a wizard. Perhaps I’m just short-sighted because I can’t imagine living life without magic.” Of course Oliver would care; Marcus didn’t know why he ever thought that one of the most stubborn people he ever knew wouldn’t care.

“I couldn’t imagine it, but then life happened and suddenly I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You did, though.”

“I didn’t.” Marcus snapped, unapologetically looking to Oliver afterwards.

A beat passed. The silence between them didn’t feel awkward or tense. The gentle creak of the jetty underneath their weight enveloped some peace into the moment. Marcus watched as Oliver tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes flicking over the reflective surface of the glossy sea. Even in the dim, slightly metallic light the shadows that cast over Oliver’s face seemed soft and welcoming. Oliver put Marcus at ease, like he was welcoming the sharpness that rang through his company’s voice.

“This is a very beautiful place,” finally Oliver spoke up, ever so slightly dipping the toe of his shoe into the shallows beneath them. He gently dragged the edge through the water, creating little infinity shapes that sent the ripples cascading in many different directions before they eased back in with the natural flow of the tide. “I can see why you decided to stay here.”

“You should see this place during the winter. They shut off the beach because of the waves. It’s something tropical, really. You’d never expect to see something like it in this little country.” Marcus responded, lifting his can back to his lips.

“If it’s anything like the winter in Scotland I can imagine it being insane,” chuckled Oliver, popping the lid to a can of Whisky this time. “My family would spend Christmas with the grandparents who lived in this wizarding village right by the ocean. The wind was _insane_. I remember taking my broomstick out, it was a present one year, and it almost broke the second I pushed off from the ground.”

That elicited a laugh from Marcus, a gentle hum of satisfaction vibrating between his lips. “One of your many mistakes, then?”

“Many?” Oliver scoffed, teasingly bumping his can on Marcus’ arm. “But yeah, one of my mistakes.”

“How’s life for you?” Marcus changed the direction of conversation. He could feel them skirting around some sort of emotional conversation and the feeling of small talk didn’t feel right in his stomach.

“It’s pretty good, you know. Work is good, relationships are good… I’ve been to too many weddings this year to be able to count them. Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley married earlier this year. As did Draco and Astoria… I was rather surprised to be invited to their wedding, but, bad blood runs dry eventually. I half expected to see you at that one but now I see why you weren’t there.” Oliver explained, brushing a hand through his sandy hair.

Marcus cleared his throat; he fiddled with the label on his can, running the flimsy plastic between his fingers to distract himself from Oliver’s subtle comment at the end. “Yeah, an invitation found itself to my apartment. I couldn’t do it, though,” he explained, drifting in and out of a stable volume. “Relationships?”

“Oh, not those sorts of relationships,” Oliver swatted a hand in the air, metaphorically swatting away any inkling of a romantic relationship in his life. “I mean, well. No… Sort of in and out of casual things but the travelling element of work makes it hard to retain anything stable. The most stable one I had ended because, apparently, I’m already dating my job and therefore I’m cheating on my broomstick.”

A chuckle fell from both their lips into the salty air. The rise and fall mingled with the soothing crashing of the waves, filling the atmosphere with tranquillity: something Marcus hadn’t really experienced for a long time. “That makes sense.”

“What about you? Surely some mysterious man who arrived from Scotland _must_ be the most sought after person in this place.” Oliver pressed. He crossed his legs on the jetty, pulling his sleeves further down his arms to preserve some warmth as the temperature dwindled into a late night cold.

“Uhm, no. In case you haven’t noticed the only people of my age who live here permanently are my co-workers. Two of whom are completely in love with each other but refuse to make any sort of move and the other isn’t gay, so that’s a lost hope.”

“You’re gay?”

“Labels bore me,” Marcus replied. “But I’m not sure. I’m still working it out in my mind.”

Oliver nodded. He turned his can around in his hand, swilling the remaining Whisky before downing it all. “There no cute wizards?”

“Unfortunately not. I slowly realised the magic community here is as identical as the Muggle one. Elderly, elderly and elderly.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Indeed it is.”

Oliver smiled at that. “Your wittiness sounds like music to my ears.” He declared, crushing his empty can. Marcus was painfully aware at how much sugar and Fire Whisky they had gliding through their veins and travelling all the way to the tips of their fingers. He felt dizzy; dizzy from the cold, the sugar and the emotions that were running up and down his spine with every breath he took.

“I think you’ve had far too much to drink this evening,” Marcus replied, gently patting Oliver’s chilling cheeks. “You feel very cold, surely you should be heading back to your accommodation?”

“You seem to forget that it’ll take me about ten seconds to get to where I’m staying.” Smiled Oliver.

“Right, sorry.”

Another silence; Marcus felt Oliver’s gaze on him again, trying eagerly to read every line on his face. It was less intimidating than before. This time the penetrating stare felt somewhat comforting. There was a shuffle as Oliver moved closer, the gentle scratch of his jacket zip disrupting the otherwise quiet environment between the two of them.

“If that was you saying you want to head off then we can. The life of a Muggle must be difficult.”

The sea salt mingling with the aftertaste of Butterbeer swimming in Oliver’s breath made him almost impossible to resist. _Almost_. There was something about being so close to his old life that made it hard for Marcus to think straight. Here he was in the little corner of the universe he chose as his place to hide being confronted with a figure from his past pulling him back to many years ago.

 _This is Oliver_ , he kept thinking, tossing the words through his mind in every different way possible. Stringing a mental sentence together as a way to express his feelings about that reality seemed infinitely impossible. Without the rose-tinted glasses he used to wear fuelling his imaginary hatred for this _person_ Marcus felt like he was being blinded by the sun that was Oliver’s light. He wasn’t one to ever fret about emotions – mainly because he hadn’t had to worry about them for as long as he could remember – but something about _this_ situation made him feel nervous. Marcus blamed the Fire Whisky.

He blamed the Fire Whisky for a lot of things. Marcus blamed it for how he found himself leaning closer to Oliver and how he suddenly found himself being able to smell Oliver’s cologne. For being so near to Oliver’s face he could see the different shades in his eyes and watch as they carefully flitted around the composition of Marcus’ cheekbones. He blamed the Fire Whisky for encouraging him to close the space between them, letting his nose gently brush the scattered facial hair over Oliver’s cheeks before hesitating to press a kiss to his cheek. A single kiss that became a small trail, dotting over the clusters of freckles on Oliver’s skin before settling one to the corner of his mouth: between his lips and his dimple. Oliver’s breath icily ghosted over Marcus’ face, easing the slight blush of colour that had succumbed his usually pale complexion.

They both paused, necks curled inwards like swans as their breathing danced around their figured. Marcus froze momentarily, head shaking as he shuffled back to his knees. _You didn’t just do that_ , he pondered, hands vigorously rubbing his eyes to hopefully wipe away the mirage of Oliver in front of him.

“I’m so sorry, I– I have no idea why I just did that,” words began to tumble from Marcus’ lips. “That was so invasive. I don’t… um. I should leave. I’ll leave now.”

He went to stand, hands pressed to the damp wood. Marcus was stopped though, a little shock of freezing lightning spreading over his wrist as Oliver clamped his hand to the skin. “No, you shouldn’t. I’m, uh… Don’t leave?” He asked. Marcus wasn’t sure why he was questioning, but it made him stop. He settled back down, reaching for another Butterbeer can.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Marcus paused, eyes closing momentarily as he attempted to reason his actions in his mind. “You’re here to be professional and to focus on your work and I’ve just completely violated your personal space by doing that. I had no right to, you know, do that to you–”

“You’re making it sound like you hurt me or something, Marcus. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Oliver soothed.

“I’m just very overwhelmed,” Marcus continued. Oliver didn’t seem to want further reasoning or validation but Marcus felt dirty not giving him the entire story that had played out in his mind. “I’ve been here for two years and suddenly someone, _you_ , basically comes back by some cruel miracle and opens up the door to everything I tried to leave. Your whole presence is a reminder of what I could have had and what I left behind and being so close to you is just… throwing me off? I don’t know. But you just feel so reassuring and like you’re making everything up here,” he illustrated his point with a gesture to his minds. “Make sense. And that hasn’t happened for a long time.”

“We spent our entire schooling careers pretending to hate each other, it kind of makes sense that this sort of interaction would frazzle your brain a little bit.” Oliver shrugged, giving a gentle squeeze to Marcus’ palm. Marcus didn’t recall when Oliver had linked their fingers, but they were most definitely interlocked.

“This is the most interesting my life has been for the last two years. I go this long with nothing and in the space of a week my existence basically flips upside down.”

Oliver nodded. Marcus noticed he seemed to do that a lot. Nod and shrug and smile in a way that made a little gap between his top and bottom lip. “It’s late. I didn’t realise we’d been out here for so long. I think it’s time to get you home.”

“Eugh, that sounds so date-y.” Marcus groaned, zipping his jacket as he finally rose to his feet. He was about to pick up the cans, intending to stuff them into his bag and throw them away at home, as Oliver lifted his wand from his pocket and shrunk them to a miniature size. He dropped the tiny metal balls into his Quidditch bag as he placed his wand back from where he got it, a bizarre expression flooding his face as he looked back to Marcus.

“Something up?”

“Oh, no. I just haven’t seen that in a while.” Marcus shrugged.

“Does nobody in the community here use magic?” Oliver questioned.

“Not really. Either that or I just don’t pay enough attention. I don’t really spend extended period of time with any witches or wizards. Just a couple of hours at most.”

Oliver nodded again, shoulder his bag handle before nodding in the path back to the beach. “Lead the way? I’d love to continue to be a gentleman and walk you home but unfortunately I have no idea where that is.”

Marcus chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back as he started the walk back to his apartment. He didn’t really know what to do with himself. Part of him wanted to cement himself to Oliver’s side as they walked the darkened streets back to his residence while the other part wanted to keep a few metres between them. He felt like he was battling two sides of emotions. Marcus was incredibly embarrassed about what he just did to the extent where he _knew_ that in better light his cheeks would be a burning crimson colour. But he was also so fascinated about what this evening was now going to lead to.

Oliver didn’t protest, didn’t apparate away in disgust or confusion. He just stayed where he was, allowed everything to unfold and was now being so casual as to walk home with Marcus. It was mind-blowing, really. To Marcus’ still juvenile and inexperienced mind he didn’t think this level of friendship was available. He didn’t think you could almost kiss someone you’d been acquaintances with for a week and then still speak to each other normally afterwards. Marcus was aware their situation was an unusual one, but still, he thought, this didn’t seem normal.

“I’d pay a lot of money to be able to read your mind.” Oliver perked up conversation again, suddenly very close to Marcus’ side as they crossed the expanse of the dusty sand and found themselves on pavement again. The granules of sand and the dried seaweed compressed to the bottom of their shows crunched on the gravel as they slunk through the shadows of winding side streets.

“Why in the world would you do that?” Marcus asked, gently knocking his knuckles against Oliver’s hand.

“Because you always look like you’re debating some serious issue in there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone have such a sophisticated and concentrated expression in my entire life. For someone who lives in such a little place you look like you’re dealing with some infinitely large problems.” Oliver explained, teasingly bumping Marcus’ hand back again.

“I overthink. I’m witty, pretty and think a lot.” Marcus joked.

“That you are.”

“You’re agreeing?” Marcus asked.

Oliver paused, tilting his head to the side as if he was _deeply_ considering Marcus’ question. The extent of the pause made Marcus slightly nervous; his tense muscles relaxed slightly as he felt Oliver’s fingertips gently brush the circumference of his wrist again. “Yeah, I’m agreeing.”

They walked in silence from then on. Oliver occasionally ran his knuckles over Marcus’ skin, leading a little trail of cool sinking into his overheated hands. Oliver radiated a type of warmth; he seemed effervescent in a world of dullness and simplicity. Through a hypothetical sea of blank clouds and grey spots he was a crack of blue and yellow. Marcus seemed to recall he always acted that. From the corridors to in Hogsmeade, even when he glided around the Quidditch Pitch in an early morning training session, a little path of delight and warmth followed him. Marcus didn’t know how he’d never noticed it before, perhaps he was too blinded by the childish negativity he possessed to see, but being exposed to such a thing now opened his eyes to many possibilities.

“This is me.” Marcus broke the silence, standing outside the slightly shabby looking door to his apartment. The lamppost opposite Marcus’ apartment illuminated them with a perfect ring of white. The scenario only reminded Marcus of one of the romantic films he was becoming far too concerned about. They again seemed to be the only two in the entire town, the only two bodies hearing the waves crashing, the seagulls barking into the air.

“Okay,” Oliver answered, despite not having a question to respond to. He gave a final, gentle knock against Marcus’ hand, rising momentarily onto his tiptoes. “I’ll see you at training, then?” He asked.

“Yes, training. Or the teashop? I’m in there most days.”

“Are you asking me to tea, Marcus Flint?” The wicked smile glittering across Oliver’s face sent Marcus’ stomach flipping. He felt so childish, making a mental note to splash cold water in his face the second he was upstairs as a punishment for this _ridiculousness._

“No,” Marcus’ flustered answer didn’t fill either of them with reassurance to Oliver’s question. Oliver’s smile widened as Marcus’ cheeks darkened. “I’m just thinking for Julia, you know. I think she’d like to see you there more often.”

“Julia, of course,” Oliver nodded, a playful wink being tossed in Marcus’ direction. “I’ll leave you be, then. Hug?”

Marcus swallowed, chewing contemplatively on his cheek before nodding. His arms went around Oliver’s neck, Oliver’s winding tightly to envelop Marcus’ waist. The scent of mango and clementine filtered through his nose as his face pressed to Oliver’s jacket. He never really liked the smell of mango but some part of him knew that was about to change.

This time it was Oliver who left an imprint on Marcus’ cheek. His lips had probably left an outline on Marcus’ skin, the cool temperature of Oliver’s contrasting completely to the head radiating off Marcus. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Oliver repeated, a beaming smile painted across his complexion.

“This has been fun.” Commented Marcus, flinging his keys out of his pocket.

“It has indeed. I’m very excited to see you in the teashop again.”

“You are?” Marcus asked, fingers fumbling to unlock his door. _You’re an idiot_ , his mind commented.

“I am.”

Marcus miraculously managed to swing the door open, the hinges creaking grotesquely into the silence of the night. “It's strawberry, by the way.” He spun back around, casting one more comment and look at Oliver for the evening.

“What is?”

“My favourite ice cream flavour.”

Oliver smiled. “Bubblegum.” And with a mock solute and a smile he vanished, the little tear in the atmosphere from his disappearance gluing back together just as Marcus closed the door. For what felt like the first time that whole evening he exhaled, a deep, rib-shaking exhale that drained every last ounce of energy from his body.

He sighed, a gentle chuckle finding its way into his verbal expression of emotion. Marcus didn’t understand how this had happened, or _why_ this had happened. He assumed fate had some peculiar path they wanted him to explore before he completely isolated himself away. Marcus couldn’t really construct a coherent thought or sentence; all he felt was the tingling outline of Oliver’s kiss dancing over his cheek. He didn’t mind that sensation at all, though.


End file.
